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Library of Che Theological Seminary 


PRINCETON * NEW JERSEY 


C=) 


PRESENTED BY 


in mM NI alann 
i? WV ete AGL oOUIL 


BV 3785 .S6 A4 1925 
Smith, Gipsy, 1860-1947. 
Gipsy Smith 





ee aes 


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Gipsy Smith 


The Two Authorized Works of 
GIPSY SMITH 


NEW REVISED EDITION 


INTRODUCTIONS BY 
DRS. MORGAN and McLAREN 


Gipsy Smith 
HIS LIFE AND WORK 
By Himself 


Illustrated, cloth, 


“What a poem this man’s lifeis. It 
is all of God’s shaping. No doubt the 
book will be read by many for its good 
stories—but it is greater than its stories.” 
—Expository Times. 


As Jesus Passed By 
AND OTHER ADDRESSES 
12mo, cloth, 


“Tf you want to read a gospel that 
glows with the fire of Pentecost, get this 
book. I need not ask you to read it. 
You will be so fascinated with the won- 
derful majesty and power of that one 
luminous soul that you will lay aside all 
other literature and read it to a finish.” 
—United Presbyterian. 








Gipsy Smith 
HIS ELE E 
AND WORK 


By HIMSELF 


Introductions by 
G. CAMPBELL MORGAN 


and 


ALEXANDER McLAREN, D.D. 


REVISED EDITION 





NEW YORK °.° CHICAGO °*.° TORONTO 
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, I9OI, 


NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THE 
EVANGELICAL FREE CHURCHES 


(All Rights Reserved) 








COPYRIGHT, 1902, 1925, 
BY 
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 


Printed in the United States of America 


TO 


My Father 


TO WHOSE UNSELFISHNESS 
I OWE 8O MUCH 


NOTE TO MY READERS 


1% the year 1901 this story of my life was sent to 
the printers, at the request of many of my friends, 
but much against my judgment: I thought the time 
was not ripe for its publication. I knew tens of thou- 
sands had listened to the story from my lips, but 
whether they would read it, and feel its grip, in cold 
type, was quite another thing. But my fears soon 
vanished when the story was published; the reviewers 
and the public were all kind and treated it better than 
I had ever hoped. I have no doubt now that the advice 
of my friends was right. The story has reached people 
whom I shall never see, and from whom I have had 
letters of thanks. From all parts of the world have 
they come, telling of blessing received while reading 
of the power of the Cross over the Gipsy tent. And, 
now, as the book has reached its seventieth thousand, 
I desire most gratefully to offer my thanks to all who 
have helped to make the story, in book form, such 
a splendid success. 

I gladly acknowledge the invaluable literary help, 
which I received from my friend Mr. W. Grinton 
Berry, M.A., in its preparation. 


Gipsy SMITH 
Romany Tan, 
CAMBRIDGE. 


INTRODUCTION 
TO AMERICAN EDITION 


By G. CAMPBELL MORGAN 


Y first acquaintance with Gipsy Smith was 
made in 1886 when I entered upon work in 

Hull, which he had originated. Going at the 
invitation of the committee then in oversight of the 
work at Wilberforce Hall to conduct services for 
fourteen days, I remained thirteen months, and 
thus had opportunity to observe the results of his 
labors. I found very many whole-hearted followers 
of Jesus Christ in dead earnest about the conversion 
of others. These, most of them, had been brought 
to God under the preaching of this man. Many of 
them remain in the churches of the town unto this 
day, and retain their first love to Christ and 
devotion for His cause. During this time I often 
met Gipsy, and from the first my heart was joined 
to his as a brother beloved, and I count him still as 
my close personal friend and a highly valued fellow- 
laborer in the kingdom and patience of Jesus Christ. 
During these years I have noted with great joy 
his remarkable development, until to-day he stands 
at the very front of those who are doing the work 
of the Evangelist. His early life, as this book 


6 Introduction to American Edition 


clearly shows, consisted of certain facts which were 
against the chances of his success, and yet, taking a 
higher viewpoint of consideration, they were in his 
favor. 

His lack of educational advantages would have 
seemed likely to bar his progress. He recognized 
this, and set himself from the first with a devotion 
and earnestness which were magnificent to remedy 
the defect. He has been a hard worker and hard 
reader, and this has found its reward in the fact 
that to-day he has acquired a style and delivery that 
is full of force and beauty. One of our great 
London dailies said of him recently that he is one 
of the finest exponents of the possibilities of Anglo- 
saxon speech since the days of John Bright. 

It is possible to hear him again and again, as I 
have done, without detecting a flaw in his grammar 
or pronunciation; and one is filled with wonder at 
his wonderful triumph in this direction. 

In his case the very early lack has been the 
stimulus of constant effort, and there has been no 
arrest of development consequent upon the mistaken 
notion—alas, too common among more favored men 
—that he had his education long ago. 

Greatly in his favor is the fact that he was a child 
of nature, nurtured near to her heart. When that 
Spirit who breatheth where He listeth brought 
him into living contact with Christ, the gain of this 
early environment was manifest. 

To know him to-day is to catch the sweet, healthy 
freshness of woods and flowers and dear old mother 


Introduction to American Edition 7 


earth, and to breathe the fragrance of the life lived 
far from the stifling atmosphere of great cities. I 
never talk with him without taking in a wholesome 
quantity of ozone. His most remarkable growth 
has been spiritual. In tone and temper, and those 
fine qualities of spirit which are the fairest produc- 
tions of Christian life, he has steadily advanced, and 
to-day more than ever is a child of God in outward 
conduct and inward character. 

Though thus a child of the country, his mission 
has been pre-eminently that of a messenger of the 
Gospel to great cities. It is one of the most heart- 
stirring and spirit-reviving sights I know to watch 
a dense mass of city folk, toilers in the factories, 
clerks from the offices, professional men, and those 
of culture and leisure, listen to him as he pleads 
with tender eloquence the cause of the Master. 

Gipsy Smith is an evangelist by right of a “ gift,” 
bestowed by the Spirit of God, as certainly as there 
ever was such in the history of the Church. In his 
case, moreover, we have a conspicuous example of 
the fact that the Spirit bestows such gifts on those 
by natural endowment fitted to receive and use 
them. There is no conflict between a man as God 
made him and the work of grace in him when he is 
utterly abandoned to the will of God. 

This story of his life is full of deep interest, as it 
breathes the very spirit of the man—artless, intense, 
transparent. For it I bespeak a reading on the part 
of all those who love the Lord Jesus and are in- 
terested in the story of His methods with the mes- 


8 Introduction to American Edition 


sengers of His grace. I welcome the book asa 
fresh living message of that grace, and as adding 
another to the long list of lives that show forth the 
excellencies of Him who calls men out of darkness 
into His marvellous light. 

This brief prefatory work is a work of love, for 
out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh, 
and of my friend who is at once Gipsy and Gentle- 
man, because wholly Christian, I can truly say, 
thank my God upon every remembrance of him. 


INTRODUCTION 


By Rev. Dr. ALEXANDER MCLAREN 


THERE is little need for any introduction to this 
book; but my friend Gipsy Smith having done me 
the honor of asking me to prefix a few words to it, 
I gladly comply with his request. I have at least 
one qualification for my present position—namely, 
my long and close knowledge of the man who here 
tells his life-story, and I can say with absolute con- 
fidence and sincerity that that knowledge has dis- 
covered to me a character of rare sweetness, good- 
ness, simplicity, and godliness, and possessed of 
something of that strange attractiveness with which 
popular beliefs have endowed his race. But the 
fascination is explicable on better grounds than 
magic spells ; it is the charm of a nature which draws 
others to itself, because it goes out to meet them, 
and is loved because it loves. 

The life told in this book has its picturesque and 
its pathetic sides, but is worthy of study for deeper 
reasons than these. It witnesses to the transform- 
ing power of Jesus Christ, entering a soul through 
that soul’s faith. A gipsy encampment is the last 
place whence an evangelist might be expected to 
emerge. Almost alien to our civilization, with 


10 Introduction 


little education, with vices and limitations inherited 
from generations who were despised and suspected, 
and with the virtues of a foreign clan encamped on 
hostile ground, the gipsies have been all but over- 
looked by the churches, with one or two exceptions, 
such as the work of Crabbe half a century since 
among those of Hampshire and the New Forest. 
But the story in this book brings one more striking 
and welcome evidence that there are no hopeless 
classes in the view of the gospel. We are accus- 
tomed to say that often enough, but we do not al- 
ways act as if we believed it, and it may do some 
of us good to have another living example of Christ’s 
power to elevate and enrich a life, whatever its an- 
tecedents, disadvantages, and limitations. Gipsy 
or gentleman, “we have all of us one human heart,”’ 
and the deepest need in that heart is an anodyne for 
the sense of sin, and a power which will implant in 
it righteousness. Here is a case in which Christ’s 
gospel has met both wants. Is there anything else 
that would or could do that? 

For another reason this book deserves study, for 
it raises serious questions as to the Church’s office 
of “evangelizing every creature.’’ Gipsy Smith has 
remarkable qualifications for that work, and has 
done it all over the country with a sobriety, trans- 
parent sincerity, and loyalty to the ordinary ministra- 
tions of the churches which deserve and have re- 
ceived general recognition. But what he has not 
is as instructive as what he has. He is not an orator, 
gor a scholar, nor a theologian. He is not a genius. 


Introduction il 


But, notwithstanding these deficiencies in his equip- 
ment, he can reach men’s hearts, and turn them 
from darkness to light in a degree which many of 
us ministers cannot do. It will be a good day for 
all the churches when their members ask themselves 
whether they are doing the work for which they are 
established by their Lord, if they fail in winning 
men to be His, and whether Christ will be satisfied 
if, when He asks them why they have not carried 
out His commands to take His gospel to those around 
them who are without it, they answer, ‘“ Lord, we 
were so busy studying deep theological questions, 
arguing about the validity of critical inquiries as to 
the dates of the books of the Bible, preaching and 
hearing eloquent discourses, comforting and edifying 
one another, that we had to leave the Christless 
masses alone.’”’ This book tells the experience of 
one man who has been an evangelist and nothing 
more. May it help to rouse the conscience of the 
church to feel that it is to be the messenger of the 
glad tidings first of all, whatever else it may be in 
addition! May it set many others to bethink them- 
selves whether they, too, are not sufficiently furnished 
“for the work of an evangelist’ to some hearts at 
least, though they have neither learning nor elo- 
quence, since they have the knowledge of One who 
has saved them, and desires through them to save 
others:' 
ALEXANDER MCLAREN. 


a f 7 
TUN UUats 


H 
Ae 





CHAPTER 


I, 


II, 


III, 


IV. 


V. 


VI. 


Vil. 


VIII. 


Ix, 


XI, 


CONTENTS. 


BIRTH AND ANCESTRY—WITH SOME NOTES OF 
GIPSY CUSTOMS . 5 ° ° ° 


MY MOTHER . e e ° > ° ° 


A MISCHIEVOUS LITTLE BOY—WITH SOMETHING 
ABOUT PLUMS, TROUSERS, RABBITS, EGGS, 
AND A CIRCUS . ‘ ‘ : : } 


THE MORALS OF THE GIPSIES e ° ° 
MY FATHER, AND HOW HE FOUND THE LORD ., 
OLD CORNELIUS WAS DEAD ° ° ° ° 


CHRISTMAS IN THE TENT—A STORY OF THREE 
PLUM-PUDDINGS ° ° ° ° ° 


THE DAWNING OF THE LIGHT . > ° e 


LEARNING TO READ AND WRITE—PREACHING TO 
THE TURNIP-FIELD—SINGING THE GOSPEL IN 
THE COTTAGES . ° ° ° . ° 


I BECOME AN EVANGELIST—THE CHRISTIAN MIS- 
SION AND REV. WILLIAM BOOTH—MY FIRST 
FROCK-COAT AND MY FIRST APARTMENTS ° 


GROWING SUCCESS—WORK AT WHITBY, SHEF- 
FIELD, AND BOLTON—MEETING MY FUTURE 


PAGE 


17 
27 


38 
48 


54 
65 


74 
78 


84 


gi 


WIFE—ROMAN CATHOLIC RIOTS ,. « 104 


XIII. 


XXT. 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 
XXVIII. 


X XIX. 


XXX, 
XXXII. 


XXXII. 


Contents 


- BALLINGTON BOOTH--MY MARRIAGE—THE 


CHATHAM FOSSILS . 


HULL AND DERBY—A GREAT SUCCESS AND A 
PARTIAL FAILURE . . 


- HANLEY—MY GREATEST BATTLEFIELD 
. DISMISSAL FROM THE SALVATION ARMY 
- HANLEY AGAIN. 


MY FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 
MANCHESTER TO AMERICA RETURN . 


MY MISSION OF THE GIPSIES 


- THIRD VISIT TO AMERICA 


GLASGOW 

AUSTRALIA 

MY FATHER AND HIS TWO BROTHERS 

LONDON, MANCHESTER AND EDINBURGH . 

MY FIFTH VISIT TO AMERICA 

SOME FRESH STORIES ABOUT PETER MACKENZIE 
AS THE NATIONAL COUNCIL’S MISSIONER . 
SOUTH AFRICA: A MISSION OF RECONCILIATION 


MORE MISSIONS TO AMERICA: MINSTERS’ PREJ- 
UDICES VANISH . . . . ° 


MY MISSION TO PARIS . ° . : 
WITH THE BOYS DURING THE WORLD WAR . 


FROM THE ARMISTICE TO TO-DAY 


PAGE 


LEE 


GIPSY Savi) te 


CHAPTER 1 


BIRTH AND ANCESTRY—WITH SOME NOTES OF 
GIPSY CUSTOMS 


I WAS born on the 31st of March, 1860, in a gipsy 
tent, the son of gipsies, Cornelius Smith and his 
wife, Mary Welch. The place was the parish of 
Wanstead, near Epping Forest, a mile and a half 
from the ‘‘Green Man,” Leytonstone. When I got 
old enough to ask questions about my birth my 
mother was dead, but my father told me the place, 
though not the date. It was only quite recently 
that I knew the date for certain. A good aunt of 
mine took the trouble to get some one to examine 
the register of Wanstead Church, and there found 
an entry giving the date of the birth and christening 
of Rodney Smith. I discovered that I was a year 
younger than I took myself to be. The gipsies care 
little for religion and know nothing really of God and 
the Bible, yet they always take care to get their 
babies christened, because it is a matter of busi- 
ness. The clergyman of the nearest parish church 


is invited to come to the encampment and perform 
i 


18 Gipsy Smith 


the ceremony. To the “ gorgios” (people who are not 
gipsies) the event is one of rare and curious inter- 
est. Some of the ladies of the congregation are sure 
to accompany the parson to see the gipsy baby, and 
they cannot very well do this without bringing pres- 
ents for the gipsy mother and more often for the 
baby. The gipsies believe in christenings for the 
profit they can make out of them. They have, be- 
sides, some sort of notion that it is the right thing 
to do. 

I was the fourth child of my parents. Two girls 
and a boy came before me and two girls came after 
me. All my brothers and sisters, except the last 
born, are alive. My eldest sister is Mrs. Ball, wife of 
Councillor Ball, of Hanley, the first gipsy in the 
history of the country to occupy a seat in a town 
council. And he is always returned at the head of 
the poll. Councillor Ball, who is an auctioneer, 
has given up his tent and lives in a house. My 
brother Ezekiel works on the railway at Cambridge, 
and is a leading spirit of the Railway Mission there. 
He was the last of the family to leave the gipsy 
tent, and he did it after a deal of persuasion and 
with great reluctance. My father and I, on visiting 
Cambridge, got him to take up his quarters in a nice 
little cottage there. When I returned to the town 
some months later and sought him in his cottage, I 
found that he was not there and that he had gone 
back to his tent. “ Whatever made you leave the 
cottage, Ezekiel?’ I asked. “It was so cold,” he 
replied. Gipsy wagons and tents are very comfort- 


Birth and Ancestry 19 


able—“ gorgios”’ should make no mistake about that. 
My second sister, Lovinia, is Mrs. Oakley, and lives 
at Luton, a widow. I had a mission at Luton last 
year, and she was one of those who came to Christ. 
My father, myself, and others of us had offered thou 
sands of prayers for her, and at that mission, she, 
a backslider for over twenty-five years, was restored. 
God gave me this honor—the joy of bringing my 
beloved sister back to the fold. I need not say that 
I think of that mission with a special warmth of 
gratitude to God. Mrs. Evens—Matilda, the baby 
of the family—helped me a great deal in my early 
evangelistic labors, and together with her husband 
has done and is doing good work for the Liverpool 
Wesleyan Mission. 

Eighty out of every hundred gipsies have Bible 
names. My father was called Cornelius, my brother 
Ezekiel. My uncle Bartholomew was the father of 
twelve children, to every one of whom he gave a_ 
scriptural name— Naomi, Samson, Delilah, Elijah, 
Simeon, and the like. Fancy having a Samson and 
a Delilah in the same family! Yet the gipsies have 
no Bibles, and if they had they could not read them. 
Whence, then, these scriptural names? Do they 
not come down to us from tradition? May it not 
be that we are one of the lost tribes? We ourselves 
believe that we are akin to the Jews, and when one 
regards the gipsies from the point of view of an out- 
sider one is able to discover some striking resem- 
blances between the gipsies and the Jews. In the 
first place, many gipsies bear a striking facial re 


20 Gipsy Smith 


semblance to the Jews. Our noses are not usually 
quite so prominent, but we often have the eyes and 
hair of Jews. Nature asserts herself. And al- 
though, as far as the knowledge of religion is con- 
cerned, gipsies dwell in the deepest heathen dark- 
ness, in the days when I was a boy they scrupulous- 
ly observed the law of the Sabbath, except when the 
“gorgios” visited them and tempted them with 
money to tell their fortunes. It was a great trouble to 
my father—I am speaking of him in his unregenerate 
days—to have to pull up his tent on the Sabbath 
day. And I have known him go a mile on Satur- 
day to get a bucket of water, so that he should not 
have to travel for iton the Sunday. And the bundles 
of sticks for the fire on Sunday were all gathered the 
day before. Even whistling a song tune was not al- 
lowed on the Sunday. When I was a boy I have 
been knocked over more than once for so far forget- 
ting myself as to engage in this simple diversion on 
the Sunday. Sunday to the gipsies is a real rest-day. 
And at the same time it is the only day on which 
they get a properly cooked mid-day meal! Then, 
again, the ancient Jewish law and custom of mar- 
riage is the same as that which is in vogue, or was in 
vogue, until quite recently among the gipsies. Sixty 
years ago a marriage according to the law of the 
land was unknown among the gipsies. The sweet- 
hearting of a gipsy young man and maiden usually 
extends over a long period, or, as “gorgios” would 
say, the rule is long engagements. Very often they 
have grown up sweethearts from boy and girl. It 


Birth and Ancestry 21 


was so with my brother Ezekiel and his wife. There 
is never such a thing as a gipsy breach of promise 
case, and if there were the evidence would probably 
be scanty, for gipsy sweethearts do not write to 
each other—because they cannot. Ninety-nine out 
of every hundred of them have never held a pen in 
their hands. When the young people are able to 
set up for themselves they make a covenant with 
each other. Beyond this there is no marriage cere- 
mony. There is nothing of jumping over tongs 
or broomsticks, or any other of the tomfooleries 
that outsiders attribute to gipsies. The ceremonial 
is the same as that which was observed at the nup- 
tials of Rebekah and Isaac. Isaac brought Rebekah 
into his tent, and she became his wife, and he lived 
with her. The gipsies are the most faithful and 
devoted of husbands. I ought to add that the mak- 
ing of the marriage covenant is usually followed 
by a spree. 

When a gipsy becomes converted, one of the first 
things about which he gets anxious is this defective 
marriage ceremonial. At one of my missions an 
old gipsy man of seventy-four sought and found his 
Saviour. Hewentaway happy. Somedays after he 
came back to see me. I perceived that something 
was oppressing his mind. “ Well, uncle, what’s the 
matter?’’ I asked. By the way, I should say that 
gipsies have great reverence for old age. We should 
never think of addressing an old man or woman by 
his or her name—not Mr. Smith or Mrs. Smith, 
John or Sally, but always uncle or aunt, terms of 


22 Gipsy Smith 


affection and respect among us. Uncle looked at me 
gloomily and said: “The truth is, my dear, my wife 
and I have never been legally married.’”?’ They had 
been married according to the only fashion known 
among the gipsies, and I told him that in the eyes of 
God they were true husband and wife. But he 
would not be persuaded. “No,” he said, “I am 
converted now; I want everything to be straight. 
We must get legally married.’’ And they did, and 
were satisfied. 

Like the Jews, the gipsies have in a wonderful 
way preserved their identity as a race. Their sep- 
arate existence can be traced back for centuries. 
Throughout these long years they have kept their 
language, habits, customs, and eccentricities un- 
touched. The history of gipsies and of their tongue 
has baffled the most taborious and erudite scholars. 
We can be traced back until we are lost on the plains 
of India, but even in these far-off days we were a 
distinct race. Like the Jews, the gipsies are very 
clean. A man who does not keep his person or be- 
longings clean is called “chickly” (dirty), and is 
despised. They have hand-towels for washing them- 
selves, and these are used for nothing else. They are 
scrupulously careful about their food. They would 
not think of washing their table-cloth with the other 
linen. Cups and saucers are never washed in soapy 
water. I saw my uncle trample on and destroy a 
copper kettle-lid because one of his children by mis- 
take had dropped it in the wash-tub. It had become 
“unclean.”’ A sick person has a spoon, plate, and 


Birth and Ancestry 23 


basin all to himself. When he has recovered or if 
he dies they are all destroyed. It is customary at 
death to destroy the possessions of the dead person 
or to bury them with him. When an uncle of mine 
died, my aunt bought a coffin large enough for all 
his possessions—including his fiddle, cup and saucer, 
plate, knife, etc.—except, of course, his wagon. My 
wife and my sister pleaded hard for the cup and saucer 
as a keepsake, but she was resolute. Nobody should 
ever use them again. 

To return to my father. He earned his living by 
making baskets, clothes-pegs, all sorts of tinware, 
and recaning cane-chairs. Of course in his uncon- 
verted days he “found” the willows for the baskets 
and the wood for the clothes-pegs. Guipsies only 
buy what they cannot “find.” My father had 
inherited his occupation from many generations of 
ancestors. He also pursued the trade of horse- 
dealer, a business in which gipsies are thoroughly 
expert. What a gipsy does not know about horses 
is not worth knowing. The trade is one in which 
tricks and dodges are frequently practised. A Dr. 
Chinnery, whom I met on one of my visits to 
America, told me of a gipsy horse-dealer for whose 
conversion he had been particularly anxious and 
with whom he had frequently talked. Said this 
gipsy, “Can I be a Christian and sell horses?’ Dr. 
Chinnery urged him to try, and he did. The poor 
gipsy found the conjunction of callings very difficult, 
but he managed to make it work. After two or three 
years, Dr. Chinnery asked him how he was getting 


24 Gipsy Smith 


on. He answered that when he had a good horse 
to sell he told those with whom he was dealing that 
it was a good horse. Since he had become a Chris- 
tian they believed him. If it was a horse about 
which he knew little, or a horse of which he had 
doubts, he said: “ My friends this (naming the sum) 
is my price. I do not know anything about the 
horse; you must examine him yourselves, and as- 
sure yourselves of his fitness. Use your judgment; 
you buy him at your own risk.” It will be seen 
from this anecdote that the gipsies are not want- 
ing in finesse. This gipsy had also not a little of 
the Yankee cuteness which is breathed in with the 
American air. His Christianity did not in the least 
hinder, but rather helped, his horse-dealing. 

The gipsy women sell what their husbands make, 
and of course when we were all little my mother did 
the selling for us. The women are the travellers for 
the concern; the men are the manufacturers. This 
old trade of making baskets is passing out of the 
hands of the gipsies; they can buy these goods for 
less than it costs to make them, and consequently 
they confine themselves to selling them. Recaning 
chairs and mending baskets is still done by some. 
Most of the men deal in horses and in anything else 
which is possible to their manner of life, and out of 
which they can make money. I estimate that there 
are from 20,000 to 25,000 gipsies in the British Isles. 
The women-folk among them still do most of the 
selling, but I am afraid that too frequently they 
carry their wares about with them merely as a blind. 


Birth and Ancestry 25 


The occupation of most of them is fortune-telling. 
It is the fashion and the folly of the “ gorgios” that 
have to a large extent forced this disgraceful pro- 
fession upon gipsy women. Soothsaying is an 
Eastern custom, a gift that Westerners have attributed 
to Orientals. The gipsies are an Eastern race, and 
the idea has in course of generations grown up among 
outsiders that they, too, can reveal the secrets of the 
hidden future. The gipsies do not themselves be- 
lieve this; they know that fortune-telling is a mere 
cheat, but they are not averse to making profit out of 
the folly and superstition of the “gorgios.”’ I know 
some of my people may be very angry with me for 
this statement, but the truth must be told. 

We travelled in the counties of Essex, Suffolk, 
Norfolk, Cambridge, Bedford, and Hertford. In my 
young days I knew these parts of England well, but 
since I left my gipsy tent, nearly a quarter of a cen- 
tury ago, I have not seen much of them. I had no 
education and no knowledge of “gorgio” civiliza: 
tion, and I grew up as wild as the birds, frolicsome 
as the lambs, and as difficult to catch as the rabbits. 
All the grasses and flowers and trees of the field and 
all living things were my friends and companions. 
Some of them, indeed, got almost too familiar with 
me. The rabbits, for instance, were so fond of me 
that they sometimes followed me home. I think I 
learned then to have a sympathetic nature, even if I 
learned nothing else. My earliest clear impression 
of these days, which have now retreated so far into 
the past, is that of falling from the front of my father’s 


26 Gipsy Smith 


wagon. I had given the horse a stroke, as boys 
will do. He made a sudden leap and jerked me 
off onto the road. What followed has passed from 
my mind, but my father tells me I was run over by 
his wagon, and if my loud screams had not attracted 
his attention I should have been run over also by 
his brother’s wagon, which followed his. 

It was my mother’s death, however, which woke 
me to full consciousness, if I may so put it. This 
event made a wound in my heart which has never to 
this day been really healed, and even at this moment, 
though I am now in middle life, I often feel my hun- 
gry soul pining and yearning for my mother. “ Rod- 
ney, you have no mother!’’—that was really the 
first and the ineffaceable impression of my boy’s 


Life, 


CHAPTER tf 
MY MOTHER 


WE were travelling in Hertfordshire. The eldest 
of the family, a girl, was taken ill. The nearest 
town was Baldock, and my father at once made 
for it, so that he might get a doctor for his child. 
I remember as if it were yesterday that the gipsy 
wagon stood outside the door of the doctor’s house. 
My father told him he had a sick daughter. The 
doctor mounted the steps of the wagon and, leaning 
over the door, called my sick sister to him and ex- 
amined her. He did not enter our poor wagon. 
We were only gipsies. “Your daughter has the 
small-pox,” he said to my father; “you must get 
out of the town at once.” He sent us to a by-lane 
about one and a half miles away—it is called Norton 
Lane. In a little bend of this lane, on the left-hand 
side, between a huge overhanging hawthorn and a 
wood on the right-hand side, making a natural arch, 
father erected our tent. There he left mother and 
four children. He took the wagon two hundred 
yards farther down the lane, and stood it on the 
right-hand side near an old chalk-pit. From the 
door he could see the tent clearly and be within call. 
The wagon was the sick-room and my father was 
the nurse. In a few days the doctor, coming to the 


28 Gipsy Smith 


tent, discovered that my brother Ezekiel also had 
the small-pox, and he, too, was sent to the wagon, 
so that my father had now two invalids to nurse. 
Poor mother used to wander up and down the lane 
in an almost distracted condition, and my father 
heard her cry again and again: “My poor children 
will die, and I am not allowed to goto them!”’ Mother 
had to go into Baldock to buy food, and, after pre- 
paring it in the tent, carried it half-way from there 
to the wagon. Then she put it on the ground and 
waited till my father came for it. She shouted or 
waved her silk handkerchief to attract his attention. 
Sometimes he came at once, but at other times he 
would be busy with the invalids and unable to leave 
them just at the moment. And then mother went 
back, leaving the food on the ground, and some- 
times before father had reached it, it was covered with 
snow, for it was the month of March and the weather 
was severe. And mother, in the anxiety of her loving 
heart, got every day, I think, a little nearer and 
nearer to the wagon, until one day she went too near, 
and then she also fell sick. When the doctor came 
he said it was the small-pox. | 

My father was in the uttermost distress. His 
worst fears were realized. He had hoped to save 
mother, for he loved her as only a gipsy can love. 
She was the wife of his youth and the mother of his 
children. They were both very young when they 
married, not much over twenty, and they were still 
very young. He would have died to save her. He 
had struggled with his calamities bravely for a whole 


My Mother 2y 


month, nursing his two first-born with whole-hearted 
love and devotion, and had never had his clothes 
off, day or night. And this he had done in order te 
save her from the terrible disease. And nowshe, too, 
was smitten. He felt that all hope was gone, and 
knowing he could not keep us separate any longer, 
he brought the wagon back to the tent. And there 
lay mother and sister and brother, all three sick with 
small-pox. In two or three days a little baby was 
born. 

Mother knew she was dying. Our hands were 
stretched out to hold her, but they were not strong 
enough. Other hands, omnipotent and eternal, were 
taking her from us. Father seemed to realize, too, 
that she was going. He sat beside her one day and 
asked her if she thought of God. For the poor gip- 
sies believe in God, and believe that he is good and 
merciful. And she said, “ Yes.” 

“Do you try to pray, my dear?” 

“Ves, Iam trying, and while I am trying to pray 
it seems as though a black hand comes before me 
and shows me all that I have done, and something 
whispers, ‘ There is no mercy for you!’ ” 

But my father had great assurance that God would 
forgive her, and told her about Christ and asked her 
to look to Him. He died for sinners. He was her 
Saviour. My father had some time before been in 
prison for three months on a false charge, and it was 
there that he had been toid what now he tried to teach 
my mother. After my father had told her all he 
knew of the gospel she threw her arms around his 


30 Gipsy Smith 


neck and kissed him. Then he went outside, stood 
behind the wagon, and wept bitterly. When he 
went back again to see her she looked calmly into 
his face, and said, with a smile: “I want you to prom- 
ise me one thing. Will you be a good father to my 
children?’ He promised her that he would; at that 
moment he would have promised her anything. 
Again he went outside and wept, and while he was 
weeping he heard her sing: 


*T have a Father in the promised land. 
My God calls me, I must go 
To meet Him in the promised land.” 


My father went back to her and said: “ Polly, my 
dear, where did you learn that song?” 

She said: “ Cornelius, I heard it when I was a little 
girl, One Sunday my father’s tents were pitched 
on a village green, and seeing the young people and 
others going into a little school or church or chapel 
—I do not know which it was—I followed them in 
and they sang those words.”’ 

It must have been twenty years or so since my 
mother had heard the lines. Although she had 
forgotten them ail these years, they came back to 
her in her moments of intense seeking after God 
and His salvation. She could not read the Bible; 
she had never been taught about God and His Son; 
but these words came back to her in her dying mo- 
ments and she sang them again andagain. Turn- 
ing to my father, she said: “J am not afraid to die 


My Mother 3r 


now. I feel that it will be all right, I feel assured 
that God will take care of my children.” 

Father watched her all that Sunday night, and 
knew she was sinking fast. When Monday morning 
dawned it found her deep in prayer. I shall never 
forget that morning. I was only a little fellow, but 
even now I can close my eyes and see the gipsy tent 
and wagon in the lane. The fire is burning outside 
on the ground, and the kettle is hanging over it in 
true gipsy fashion anda bucket of water is stand- 
ing near by. Some clothes that my father has been 
washing are hanging on the hedge. I can see the 
old horse grazing along the lane. I can see the 
boughs bending in the breeze, and I can almost hear 
the singing of the birds, and yet when I try to call 
back the appearance of my dear mother I am baffled, 
That dear face that bent over my gipsy cradle and 
sang lullabies to me, that mother who if she had lived 
would have been more to me than any other in God’s 
world—her face has faded clean from my memory. 
I wandered up the lane that morning with the hand 
of my sister Tilly in mine. We two little things were 
inseparable. We could not go to father, for he was 
too full of his grief. The others were sick. We two 
had gone off together, when suddenly I heard my 
name called: “ Rodney!”’ and running to see what I 
was wanted for, I encountered my sister Emily. She 
had got out of bed, for bed could not hold her that 
morning, and she said to me, “ Rodney, mother’s 
dead!’’ I remember falling on my face in the lane 
as though I had been shot, and weeping my heart out 


32 Gipsy Smith 


and saying to myself, “I shall never be like othe: 
boys, for I have no mother!” And somehow that 
feeling has never quite left me, and even now, in my 
man’s life, there are moments when mother is longed 
for. 

My mother’s death caused a gloom indescribable 
to settle down upon the tent life. The day of the 
funeral came. My mother was to be buried at the 
dead of night. We were only gipsies, and the author- 
ities would not permit the funeral to take place in 
the day-time. In the afternoon the coffin was placed 
on two chairs outside the wagon, waiting for the 
darkness. Sister and brother were so much better 
that the wagon had been emptied. My father had 
been trying to cleanse it, and the clothes, such as 
we had for wearing and sleeping in, had been put 
into the tent. While we were watching and weeping 
round the coffin—father and his five children—the 
tent caught fire, and all our little stock of worldly 
possessions were burned to ashes. The sparks flew 
around us on all sides of the coffin, and we expected 
every moment that that, too, would be set on fire. We 
poor little things were terrified nearly to death. “ Moth- 
er will be burned up!’”’ wewept. “ Mother will be burned 
up!’ Father fell upon his face on the grass crying 
like achild. The flames were so strong that he could 
do nothing to stop their progress ; and, indeed, he had 
to take great care to avoid harm to himself. Our 
agonies while we were witnessing this, to us, terrible 
conflagration, helpless to battle against it, may easily 
be imagined, but, strange to relate, while the sparks 


(GHGs aoe COW. ATA. HOLE NI HIN Vial saeie 








My Mother 33 


fell all around the coffin, the coffin itself was un- 
touched. 

And now darkness fell and with it came to us an 
old farmer’s cart. Mother’s coffin was placed in the 
vehicle, and between ten and eleven o’clock my father, 
the only mourner, followed her to the grave by a 
lantern light. She lies resting in Norton church- 
yard, near Baldock. When my father came back 
to us it was midnight, and his grief was very great. 
He went into a plantation behind his van, and throw- 
ing himself upon his face, promised God to be good, 
to take care of his children, and to keep the promise 
that he had made to his wife. A fortnight after the 
little baby died and was placed at her mother’s side. 
If you go to Norton church-yard now and inquire for 
the gipsies’ graves they will be pointed out to you. 
My mother and her last born lie side by side in that 
portion of the grave-yard where are interred the re- 
mains of the poor, the unknown, and the forsaken. 

We remained in that fatal lane a few weeks longer ° 
then the doctor gave us leave to move on, all danger 
being over. So we took farewell of the place where 
we had seen so much sorrow. 

I venture to think that there are some points of 
deep spiritual significance in this narrative. First 
of all, there is the sweet and touching beauty of my 
father’s endeavor to show my mother, in the midst 
of his and her ignorance, the way of salvation as far 
as he was able. My dear father tried to teach her 
of God. Looking back on that hour he can see 
clearly arn the hand of God. When he was in prison 


34 Gipsy Smith 


as a lad, many years before, he heard the gospel 
faithfully preached by the chaplain. The sermon 
had been on the text, “I am the good Shepherd, and 
know My sheep, and am known of Mine.” My 
father was deeply distressed and cried to God to save 
him, and had there been any one to show him the 
way of salvation he would assuredly have found 
peace then. 

At the time of my mother’s death, too, my father 
was under deep conviction, but there was no light. 
He could not read, none of his friends could read, 
and there was no one to whom he could go for in- 
structicn and guidance. The actual date of his con- 
version was some time after this, but my father is 
convinced that if he had been shown the way of sal- 
vation he would have there and then surrendered his 
life to God. 

Another significant point was this: what was it 
that brought back to my mother’s mind in her last 
hour the lines: 


“‘T have a Father in the promised land. 
My God calls me, I must go 
To meet Him in the promised land’’? 


Was it not the Holy Ghost, of whom Christ said, 
“ But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom 
the Father will send in My name, He shall teach you 
all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, 
whatsoever I have said unto you”? (John xiv. 26). 
My mother had lived in a religious darkness that 
was all but unbroken during her whole life, buta ray of 


My Mother Qk 


light had crept into her soul when she was a little 
girl, by the singing of this hymn. That was a part 
of the true light which lighteth every man that cometh 
into the world. ‘No minister ever looked near our 
gipsy tent, no missioner, no Christian worker. To 
me it is plain that it was the Holy Ghost who brought 
these things to her remembrance—as plain as the 
sun that shines, or the flowers that bloom, or the 
birds that sing. That little child’s song, heard by 
my mother as she wandered into that little chapel 
that Sunday afternoon, was brought back to her by 
the Spirit of God and became a ladder by which 
she climbed from her ignorance and superstition to 
the light of God and the many mansions. And my 
mother is there, and although I cannot recall her 
face, I shall know it some day. 

I became conscious after my mother’s death that 
I was a real boy, and that I had lost something which 
I should never find. Many a day when I have seen 
my aunts making a great deal of their children, giv- 
ing them advice and even thrashing them, I have 
cried for my mother—if it were only to thrash me! 
It tore my hungry little heart with anguish to stand 
by and see my cousins made a fuss of. At such 
times I have had hard work to hide my bitter tears. 
I have gone up the lane round the corner, or into the 
field or wood to weep my heart out. In these days, 
my dreams, longings, and passions frightened me. 
{ would lie awake all night exploring depths in my 
own being that I but faintly understood, and thinking 
of my mother. I knew that she had gone beyond the 


36 Gipsy Smith 


clouds, because my father told me so, and I believed 
everything that my father told me. I knew he spoke 
the truth. I used to try to pierce the clouds, and 
often-times I fancied I succeeded, and used to have 
long talks with my mother, and I often told her 
that some day I was coming up to her. 

One day I went to visit her grave in Norton church- 
yard. As may be imagined, that quiet spot in the 
lonely church-yard was sacred to my father and to 
us, and we came more often to that place than we 
should have done had it not been that there in the 
cold earth lay hidden from us a treasure that gold 
could not buy back. I shall never forget my first 
visit to that hallowed spot. Our tent was pitched 
three miles off. My sister Tilly and I—very little 
things we were—wandered off one day in search of 
mother’s grave. It was early in the morning when 
we started. We wandered through fields, jumped 
two or three ditches, and those we could not jump 
we waded through. The spire of Norton church was 
our guiding star. We set our course by it. When 
we reached the church-yard we went to some little 
cottages that stood beside it, knocked at the doors 
and asked the people if they could tell us which was 
mother’s grave. We did not think it necessary to 
say who mother was or who we were. There was 
but one mother in the world for us. The good people 
were very kind to us. They wept quiet, gentle tears 
for the poor gipsy children, because they knew at once 
from our faces and our clothes that we were gipsies, 
and they knew what manner of death our mother 


My Mother a7 


had died. The grave was pointed out to us. When 
we found it, Tilly and I stood over it weeping for a long 
time, and then we gathered primrose and violet roots 
and planted them on the top. And we stood there 
long into the afternoon. The women from the cot- 
tages gave us food, and then it started to our memory 
that it was late, and that father would be wondering 
where we were. Sol said, “Tilly, we must go home,”’ 
and we both got on our knees beside the grave and 
kissed it. Then we turned our backs upon it and 
walked away. When we reached the gates that led 
out of the church-yard we looked back again, and I 
said to Tilly, “I wonder whether we can do anything 
for mother?” I suddenly remembered that I had 
with me a gold-headed scarf-pin which some one had 
given me. It was the only thing of any value that 
I ever had as a child. Rushing back to the grave, 
upon the impulse and inspiration of the moment, 
I stuck the scarf-pin into the ground as far as I could, 
and hurrying back to Tilly, I said, “ There, I have 
given my gold pin to my mother!’’ It was all I had 
to give. Then we went home to the tents and wagons. 
Father had missed us and had become very anxious. 
When he saw us he was glad and also very angry, 
intending, no doubt, to punish us for going away 
without telling him, and for staying away too long. 
He asked us where we had been. We said we had gone 
to mother’s grave. Without a word he turned away 
and wept bitterly. 


CHAPTER Ii 


A MISCHIEVOUS LITTLE BOY—WITH SOMETHING 
ABOUT PLUMS, TROUSERS, RABBITS, EGGS, 
AND A CIRCUS 


THE wild man in my father was broken forever. 
My mother’s death had wrought a moral revolution 
in him. As he had promised to her, he drank much 
less, he swore much less, and he was a good father 
to us. When my mother died he had made up his 
mind to be a different man, and as far as was possible 
in his own strength he had succeeded. But his soul 
was hungry for he knew not what, and a gnawing 
dissatisfaction that nothing could appease or gratify 
was eating out his life. 

The worldly position of our household, in the 
mean time, was comfortable. My father made clothes- 
pegs and all manner of tinware, and we children 
sold them. If I may say so, I was the best seller 
in the family. Sometimes I would get rid of five or 
six gross of clothes-pegs in a day. I was not at all 
bashful or backward, and I think I may say I was 
a good business man in those days. I used so to 
keep on at the good women till they bought my pegs 
just to get rid of me. “ Bother the boy,” they would 
say, “there is no getting rid of him!”’ And I would 


A Mischievous Little Boy 39 


say, “Come, now, madame, here you have the best 
pegs in the market. They will not eat and wil! not 
wear clothes out; they will not cry, and they will 
not wake you up in the middle of the night!”’ Then 
they would laugh, and I used to tell them who I was, 
and that | had nomother. This softened their hearts. 
Sometimes I sold my pegs wholesale to the retail 
sellers. I was a wholesale and a retail merchant. 

I got into trouble, however, at Cambridge. I was 
trying to sell my goods at a house there. It chanced 
to be a policeman’s house. I was ten or eleven years 
of age, too young to have a selling license, and the 
policeman marched me off to the police-court. I 
was tried for selling goods without a license. I was 
called upon to address the court in my defence. 
And I said something like this: “Gentlemen, it is 
true I have no license. You will not let me havea 
license; [amtoo young. Iam engaged in an honest 
trade. Ido not steal. I sell my c'othes-pegs to help 
my father to make an honest living for himself and 
us children. If you will give me a license my father 
is quite willing to pay for it, but if you will not, I do 
not see why I should be prevented from doing honest 
work for my living.”” This argument carried weight. 
My ingenuousness impressed the court, and I was 
let off with a small fine. 

I think I can tell some amusing things about these 
days. My dress consisted of an overall (and an 
underall too), a smock-frock of the sort that is still 
worn in the Eastern counties. When I took this off, 
I was ready for bed The frock had some advan- 


40 Gipsy Smith 


tages. It had pockets which it took a great deal to 
fill. They were out of sight, and no one could very 
well know what was in them. One day I was upa 
tree, a tree that bore delicious Victoria plums. I had 
filled my pockets with them, and I had one in my 
mouth. I was ina very happy frame of mind, when, 
lo! at the foot of the tree appears the owner of the 
land. He gave me a very pressing invitation to 
come down. At once I swallowed the plum in my 
mouth, in case he should think that I was after his 
plums. He repeated his pressing invitation to come 
down. 

“What do you want, sir?’ I asked, in the most 
bland and innocent tones, as if I had never known 
the taste of plums. 

“Tf you come down,” he said, “I will tell you.” 

I am not used to climbing up or climbing down, 
but I had to come down because I could not stay 
even up a plum-tree for ever, and my friend showed 
no disposition to go. He said, “I will wait until 
you are ready,” and I did not thank him for his 
courtesy. Idid not make haste to come down, neither 
did I do it very joyfully. When I got to the foot 
of the tree my friend got me by the right ear. There 
was a great deal of congratulation in his grip. He 
pulled me over rapidly and unceremoniously to an- 
other tree. 

“Do you see that tree?” he said. 

i Vesu sine? 

“Do you see that board?” 

“Yes, sir.” 


A Mischievous Little Boy Af 


“Can you read it?” 

auNoy Sirs 

“Well, I will read it for you: ‘Whosoever is 
found trespassing on this ground will be prosecuted 
according to law.’”’ 

since that day I have never wanted anybody to 
explain to me what “whosoever” means. This 
memorable occasion fixed the meaning of the word 
on my mind for ever. The irate owner shook me 
hard. And I tried to cry, but I could not. Then I 
told him that I had no mother, and I thought that 
touchea him, although he knew it, for he knew my 
father. Indeed, that saved me. He looked at me 
again and shook me hard. “If it were not for your 
father,’ he said, “I would send you to prison.’’ For 
wherever my father was known in his unconverted 
days, by farmer, policeman, or gamekeeper, he was 
held in universal respect. At last he let me off with 
a caution. He threw an old boot at me, but he for- 
got to take his foot out of it. But I was quite happy, 
for my pockets were full of plums. I dared not say 
anything about it to my father. My father would 
have been very angry with me, because, even in 
his wild days, he would not allow this sort of thing 
in his children if he knew. ‘Then there were farmers 
who were kind to us—very ; and we had to be special- 
ly careful what we did and where we went. If our 
tent was pitched near their places, my father would 
say to us, “I do not want you to go far from the 
wagons to-day,” and we knew at once what that 
meant. 


42 Gipsy Smith 


My father was a very fatherly man. He did not 
believe in sparing the rod or spoiling the child. He 
was fond of taking me on his knees with my face 
downward. When he made an engagement with 
me he kept it. He never broke one. He sometimes 
almost broke me. Ifa thrashing was due, one might 
keep out of father’s reach all day, but this merely 
deferred the punishment; there was no escaping him 
at bed-time, because we all slept on one floor, the 
first. Sometimes he would send me for a stick to 
be thrashed with. In that case I always brought 
either the smallest or the biggest—the smallest be- 
cause I knew that it could not do much harm, or the 
largest because I knew my father would lay it on 
very lightly. Once or twice I managed to get out 
of a thrashing in this way: One was due to me in the 
evening. Inthe afternoon I would say to him, “ Dad- 
dy, shall I go and gather a bundle of sticks for your 
fire?’’ and he would say, “Yes, Rodney.” Then 
when I brought them to him I would hand him one, 
and he would say, “ What is this for?’ “Why, 
that is for my thrashing,” I would answer. And 
sometimes he would let me off, and sometimes he 
would not. Occasionally, too, I used to plead, “I 
know mother is not far behind the clouds, and she is 
looking down on you, and she will see you if you 
hit me very hard.’’ Sometimes that helped me to 
escape, sometimes it did not. But this I will say 
for my father: he never thrashed me in a temper, and 
I am quite sure now that J deserved my thrashings, 
and that they all did me good. 


A Mischievous Little Boy 43 


As I grew older I became ambitious of some thing 
better and greater than a smock-frock, namely—a 
pair of trousers. My father did not give an enthu- 
siastic encouragement to that ambition, but he told 
me that if I was a good boy I should have a pair of 
his. And I was a good boy. My father in those 
days stood nearly six feet high, was broad in pro- 
portion, and weighed fifteen stones. I was very 
small and very thin as a child, but I was bent on hav- 
ing a pair of trousers. My father took an old pair 
of his and cut them off at the knees; but even then, 
of course, they had to be tucked up. I was a proud 
boy that day. I took my trousers behind the hedge, 
so that I might put them on in strict privacy. My 
father and brother, enjoying the fun, although I 
did not see it, waited for me on the other side of the 
hedge. When I emerged they both began to chaff 
me. “Rodney,” said my brother, “are you going 
or coming?’ He brought me a piece of string and 
said, “ What time does the balloon go up?” And, 
in truth, when the wind blew, I wanted to be pegged 
down. I did not like the fun, but I kept my trousers. 
I saw my father’s dodge. He wanted me to get dis- 
gusted with them and to go back to the smock-frock ; 
but I knew that if I went on wearing them he would 
soon get tired of seeing me in these extraordinary 
garments and would buy me a proper pair. 

A day came when we were the guests of the Prince 
of Wales at Sandringham—that is, we pitched our 
tents on his estate. One day I helped te catch some 
rabbits, and these trousers turned out t¢ be very use- 


6 


44 Gipsy Smith i 


ful. In fact, immediately the rabbits were caught, 
the trousers became a pair of fur-lined garments; 
for I carried them home inside the trousers. 

At length my father bought me a pair of brand- 
new corduroys that just fitted me, but I was soon 
doomed to trouble with these trousers. One day I 
found a hen camping out in the ditch, and there was 
quite a nestful of eggs there. I was very indignant 
with that hen for straying so far from the farm-yard. 
I considered that her proceedings were irregular and 
unauthorized. As to the eggs, the position to me 
was quite clear. I had found them. I had not gone 
into the farm-yard and pilfered them. On the other 
hand, they had put themselves in my way, and I 
naturally thought they were mine, and so I filled 
my pockets with them. I was sorry that I had to 
leave some of these eggs, but I could not helpit. The 
capacity of my pockets in my new trousers was less 
generous than in the old ones.. My next difficulty 
was how to get out of the ditch without breaking any 
of the eggs. But I was a youngster of resource and! 
managed it. And now I had to take my way across’ 
a ploughed field. This meant some very delicate 
pedestrian work. Then [ heard a man shout, and 
I thought that he wanted me, but I did not desire to 
give him an interview. Sol ran, and asI ran I fell; 
and when [ fell the eggs all cracked. I got up, 
and, looking round, saw nobody. The man who I 
thought was pursuing me was only shouting to a 
man in another field. It is truly written, “The 
wicked flee when no man pursueth.” I thought I 


A Mischievous Little Boy 45 


had found these eggs, but my conscience found me. 
I have never found eggs again from that day to this. 

One other episode of my childish days will I inflict 
upon my readers. It was the time of the Cambridge 
Fair, and our wagons were standing on the fair-ground. 
The fun of the fair included a huge circus—Sanger’s, 
I think it was. In front of the door stood the clown, 
whom it was the custom among us to call “ Pinafore 
Billy.”’ This is the man who comes out and dilates 
on the wonders and merits of the performance, tells 
the people that the show is just about to begin, and 
invites them to step in. My highest ambition as a 
boy was to become a Pinafore Billy. I thought that 
that position was the very height of human glory, and 
I would have done anything and taken any trouble 
to get it. Now I wanted to get into the circus, and 
I had no money. A man was walking round the 
show with a long whip in his hand driving boys off, 
in case they should attempt to slip in under the can- 
vas. I went up to this whip-man and offered to 
help him. He was very scornful, and said, “ What 
can you do?” I said, “I will do what I can; I will 
help to keep the boys off.”” So he said, “ Very well; 
what will you do?” I answered, “You go round 
one way and I will go the other.” It was agreed, 
but as soon as he started to do his half of the round 
and turned his back on me, and had got round the 
tent, I slipped under the canvas. I thought by 
doing so I should at once be in the right part of the 
circus for seeing the show, but instead of that I found 
myself in a sort of dark, dismal part underneath 


46 Gipsy Smith 


the raised seats of the circus. This was where the 
horses were kept. I saw at once I was in a fix, and 
to my horror I perceived a policeman walking round 
inside and coming towards me. I was at my wits’ 
end; but luckily I perceived some harness lying 
about, and seizing a loose cloth close at hand, I be- 
gan to polish the harness vigorously. When the 
policeman did come up to me he said, “My boy, 
that is a curious job they have given you to do in 
such a place as this.” “It is very hard work,” I 
said, and went on polishing as vigorously as ever, 
never looking up at the policeman’s face. I was 
afraid to, for I knew that my looks would betray my 
guilt. Then the policeman went on. I really do 
not know how I made my way into the circus. How- 
ever, I found myself sitting among the best seats 
of the house, and I am sure that I attracted great 
attention, for here was I, a poor little gipsy boy, 
dressed in corduroys and velvets, sitting among 
all the swells. I was not long in peace. My con- 
science at once began to say to me, “ How will you 
get out? You dare not go out,by the door in case 
you meet the whip-man that you offered to help.” 
I felt myself to be a thief and a robber. I had not 
come in at the door, but I had climbed up some other 
way. Ido not remember quite how I got out of this 
terrible dilemma, but I know that I escaped without 
suffering, and was very glad, indeed, to find myself 
outside again with a whole skin. 

These are the worst of the sins that I have to con- 
fess. My boyhood’s days were, on the whole, very 


A Mischievous Little Boy 47 


innocent. I did not drink or swear. I am afraid, 
however, that I told lies many a time. I had no 
opportunity for cultivating bad habits, for all the 
companions I had were my sisters and my brother, 
and so I was kept from serious sin by the narrow- 
ness and the limitations of my circumstances. 


CHAPTER [IV 
THE MORALS OF THE GIPSIES 


PERHAPS this is a fit place to say a few words 
about the morals of the gipsies. I want to say at 
once that the character of my people stands very 
high. I never knew of a gipsy girl who went astray. 
I do not say that that never happened, but that I 
never knew a fallen woman in a gipsy-tent. The 
gipsy boy is told from his earliest days that he must 
honor and protect women. He drinks in this teach- 
ing, so to say, with his mother’s milk, and he grows 
up to be very courteous and very chivalrous. The 
gipsy sweethearts do their courting in the day-time, 
and where they can be seen by their parents. The 
“‘gorgio’’ sweethearts would probably find these 
conditions rather trying. Gipsy sweethearts do not 
go out for walks by the light of the moon, neither 
do they betake themselves to nooks and corners out 
of sight and out of reach of everybody. All the 
sweet things the gipsy man says to the gipsy maid 
must be uttered, if not in the hearing of their parents, 
at least in their sight. 

My brother Ezekiel and his wife were sweethearts 
from childhood, One day, when they were approach- 
ing the estate of manhood and womanhood, Eze- 


The Morals of the Gipsies 49 


kiel was sitting talking to his girl in the presence of 
her mother. “I know,’ said Ezekiel’s prospective 
mother-in-law, “that you young people want a walk. 
You shall have one. I will go with you.’”’ And this 
is the kind of thing which occurs invariably during 
gipsy courtships. Sweethearts would never think 
of going off alone for a little walk, yet the gipsies 
find this no bar to pleasant and successful courting. 
The result of these customs is that gipsy courtships 
are not marred by untoward and unpleasant in- 
cidents. The hearts of the young men and young 
women are pure, and this purity is guarded by their 
parents like gold. The gipsy men, indeed, pride 
themselves on the purity of their women, and that 
says a great dealforthe men. Practically all gipsies 
get married. There are very few old maids and old 
bachelors. The gipsy husband and wife live on 
the most intimate terms. The wife knows all that 
her husband knows. I would not say thata gipsy 
husband knows all that his wife knows, any more 
than a “‘gorgio”’ husband knows all that his wife 
knows. They usually have large families. There is 
no more groundless slander than the statement that 
gipsies steal children. They have every reason for 
not so doing. They have plenty of their own. My 
great-uncle was the father of thirty-one children, 
and a brother of my father’s was the father of twenty- 
four, I think. I have never heard that they sought 
to add to their number by theft. 

The young gipsy couple start their married life 
by burcha sae a wagon. This costs anywhere from 


50 Gipsy Smith 


£40 to £150, and is obtained from a “ gorgio ” wagon- 
builder. Oddly enough, the gipsies never learn the 
trade of making their own wagons. The wagons 
are very warm and very strong, and last a great many 
years. The young husband 1s, of course, the manu- 
facturer of the goods, and his wife the seller. When 
she leaves the wagon in the morning to go her rounds 
she arranges with her husband where the wagon 
shall be placed at night, and thither she betakes her- 
self when her day’s toil is over. In the course of the 
day she may have walked from fifteen to twenty 
miles. Gupsies have plenty of exercise and a suff- 
ciency of food. This explains their very good health. 
If the husband has been refused permission to stand 
his wagon on the arranged spot and has had to move 
on, he lets his wife know where he is going by leaving 
behind him a track of grass. 

Gipsies are very lovable and very loyal to one an- 
other. They are respectful, and even reverential, to 
old age. I never knew of a gipsy who ended his or 
her days in the workhouse. The gipsy young man 
would rather work the flesh off his fingers than tol- 
erate any such thing. They would feel ashamed to 
abandon those who had done so much for them. 

The gipsies do not hate the “ gorgios,”’ but they feel 
that they are suspected and mistrusted, and that 
everybody is afraid of them. They feel that all 
* sorgios’”’ are against them, and therefore they are 
against the “‘gorgios.”’ Ifa kindness is done them by 
a “‘gorgio”’ they never cease to talk about it. They 
remember it all their days and their children are 


The Morals of the Gipsies a4 


told of it too. Quite recently a curious illustration 
of this trait came to my knowledge. I was travel- 
ling from Cambridge to Thetford, and had as my 
companion a clergyman of the Church of England. 
“Some years ago,” he said to me, “a gipsy family 
came to my parish. The father was ill, and I went 
to see him. I read to him, I prayed with him, and 
my wife brought him some nourishing soup. This 
poor man became a sincere seeker after Christ, and 
I have every reason to believe he was converted. I 
followed up my friendship with him. When he left 
the parish and went a few miles farther away | kept 
in touch with him, and wrote to a brother clergyman 
and arranged with him to follow up what I had tried 
to do for this dying man. This he gladly did, and 
the man passed away happy in the knowledge of 
sins forgiven. Two or three years after I was driv- 
ing out of Norwich when I met two young gipsy 
fellows with a donkey which they were going into 
Norwich to sell. I was in need of a donkey, so I got 
down and began to talk to them. I questioned them 
about the donkey. They said it was a very good 
one, and from its appearance I thought so too. Then 
we went on to discuss the price. I finally decided to 
purchase the donkey. I had some further conver- 
sation with them, telling them where to take the don- 
key, and when I would be home to pay for the same. 
In the mean time I observed with somewhat of alarm 
that these two young fellows were exchaging curi- 
ous glances. We were about to fix up the bargain 
when one of them said to me, ‘Are you Mr. So-and-so?’ 


52 Gipsy Smith 


‘Yes, Iam.’ ‘Oh, well, sir, we have heard of your 
great kindness to poor So-and-so when he was dying, 
and we cannot sell you this donkey: it is a bad one; 
we could not take you in; but if you will let us we 
will give you a good donkey, a genuine, good arti- 
cle.’ And they got me a fine animal, which has done 
a good deal of work, which I still have, and have 
been delighted with.”’ 

The gipsies are naturally musical. In fact, I 
believe that the only naturally musical people in 
the world are the Jews and gipsies, and this is an- 
other point of affinity between the two races. The 
gipsies love to dance in the lanes to the music of the 
harp, the dulcimer, and violin. They do not object 
to the “ gorgios’”’ looking on, but they would rather 
they did not join in the merriment. They like to live 
their own life with absolute freedom and without 
interference. 

But, alas! there is a debit side to this moral balance 
account. The gipsies drink a good deal. Beer is 
their beverage. Spirits as a rule they take sparingly. 
They do not drink for the mere sake of drinking, 
but only when they meet friends. Their drinking 
is an unfortunate outcome of their highly social dis- 
positions. They may be abstemious for days, weeks, 
and even months, but when they begin to drink 
they go in for it thoroughly. Cans and bottles do not 
satisfy them. Buckets are what they need; and the 
spree sometimes lasts for nearly a week. Gipsy 
women, however, are abstemious. I have only 
known one who was really a drunkard. And then 


The Morals of the Gipsies G2 


zipsies swear, some of them, indeed, fearfully. They 
do not lie to each other, but to the “gorgios.”” They 
are paid to lie, to tell fortunes. This vile business, 
which has really been forced upon them by the “ gor- 
gios,” utterly debauches the consciences of the gipsies. 
And I should like all our educated women to know 
that every time they pay a gipsy woman to tell their 
fortune they make it the more difficult for that woman 
to becomea Christian. The gipsies, too, are pilferers. 
They do not commit big robberies. They do not 
steal horses or break into banks, nor do they commit 
highway robberies, or find a few thousands, or fail 
for a few. But they take potatoes from a field or 
fruit from an orchard—only what is sufficient for 
their immediate needs. The potatoes they take from 
a field are only those they need until they get to 
the next potato field. Sometimes, too, late at night, 
they will put five or six horses into a field to feed, 
and take them out early in the morning. They are 
also in the habit of finding young undergrowth stuff 
that they use for their clothes-pegs and baskets, 
Most of them never dream that there is any sin or 
wrong in such actions. They regard them merely 
as natural, ordinary, commonplace events in their 
Jaily lives 


CHAPTER V 
MY FATHER, AND HOW HE FOUND THE LORD 


To return to the story of my own life. I have 
said that the gipsies are very musical, and my father 
was a good illustration of this statement. He was 
a very good fiddler—by ear, of course. He tells 
a story of the days when he was learning to play 
in his mother’s tent. Dear old lady, she got tired 
of the noise the boy was making, and she told him 
to stop. As he did not stop, she said, “If you don’t 
I will blow out the candle.” This she did. That, 
of course, made no difference to the young musician ; 
he went on playing, and grannie said, “I never 
saw such a boy; he can play in the dark!” For 
years my father had greatly added to his ordinary 
earnings by fiddling to the dancers in the public- 
houses at Baldock, Cambridge, Ashwell, Royston, 
Bury St. Edmunds, and elsewhere. Even after my 
mother’s death, though his fiddling led him into 
great temptations, my father continued this practice, 
and he sometimes took me with him. When he 
fiddled I danced. I was a very good dancer, and 
at a certain point in the evening’s proceedings my 
father would say, “Now, Rodney, make the collec. 
tion,’ and I went round with the hat. That is where 


My Father—How He Found the Lord 55 


I graduated for the ministry. If ever my father 
took more drink than was good for him, with the 
result that he did not know whether he was drawing 
the bow across the first string‘or the second, I -went 
round again with my cap. What I collected that 
time I regarded as my share of the profits, for I was 
a member of the firm of Smith & Son, and nota 
sleeping partner either. How delighted I was if 
I got a few coppers to show to my sisters! These 
visits with my father to the beer-shop were very fre- 
quent, and as I think of those days, when I was 
forced to listen to the vile jokes and vulgar expres- 
sions of the common laborers, I marvel at the grace 
which shielded me and prevented me from under- 
standing what was being said. 

All this time, while my father was living this life 
of fiddling and drinking and sinning, he was under 
the deepest conviction. He always said his prayers 
night and morning and asked God to give him power 
over drink, but every time temptation came in his 
way he fell before it. He was like the chaff driven 
before the wind. He hated himself afterwards be-. 
cause he had been so easily overcome. He was so 
concerned about his soul that he could rest nowhere. 
If he had been able to read the word of God, I feel 
sure, and he, looking back on those days, feels sure, 
that he would have found the way of life. His sister 
and her husband, who had no children, came to travel 
with us. She could struggle her way through a 
little of the New Testament, and used to read to 
my father about the sufferings of Christ and His 


56 Gipsy Smith 


death upon the tree for sinful men. She told my 
father it was the sins of the people which nailed Him 
there, and he often felt in his heart that he was one 
of them. She was deeply moved when he wept and 
said, “Oh, how cruel to serve Him so!” I have 
seen father when we children were in bed at night, 
and supposed to be asleep, sitting over the fire, the 
flame from which was the only light. As it leaped 
up into the darkness it showed us a sad picture. 
There was father, with tears falling like bubbles on 
mountain streams as he talked to himself about 
mother and his promise to her to be good. He would 
say to himself aloud, “I do not know how to be good,”’ 
and laying his hand upon his heart he would say, 
“T wonder when [ shall get this want satisfied, this 
burden removed.’”’ When father was in this con- 
dition there was no sleep for us children. We lay 
awake listening, not daring to speak, and shedding 
bitter tears. Many a time | have said the next morn- 
in to my sisters and my brother, “ We have no mother, 
and we shall soon have no father.’”’ We thought 
he was going out of his mind. We did not under- 
stand the want or the burden. It was all quite foreign 
to us. My father remained in this sleepless, con- 
victed condition for a long time, but the hour of his 
deliverance was at hand. 


“Long in darkness we had waited 
For the shining of the light: 
Long have felt the things we hated 
Sink us into deeper night.” 


My Father—How He Found the Lord 57 


One morning we had left Luton behind us. My 
eldest sister was in the town selling her goods, and 
my father had arranged to wait for her on the road- 
side with our wagon. When our wagon stopped 
my father sat on the steps, wistfully looking towards 
the town against the time of his daughter’s return, 
and thinking, no doubt, as he always was, of my 
mother and his unrest. Presently he saw two gipsy 
wagons coming towards him, and when they got 
near he discovered to his great delight that they 
belonged to his brothers Woodlock and Bartholo- 
mew. Well do I remember that meeting. My father 
was the eldest of the three, and although he was 
such a big man, he was the least in stature. The 
brothers were as surprised and delighted to meet 
my father as he was to meet them. They fell on 
each other’s necks and wept. My father told them 
of his great loss, and they tried to sympathize with 
him, and the wives of the two brothers did their best 
to comfort us motherless children. The two wagons 
of my uncles faced my father’s, but on the opposite 
side of the road. The three men sat on the bank 
holding sweet fellowship together, and the two wives 
and the children of the three families gathered around 
them. Soon my father was talking about the con- 
dition of his soul. Said he to Woodlock and Bar- 
tholomew: “Brothers, I have a great burden that I 
must get removed. A hunger is gnawing at my 
heart. I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. If I do 
not get this want satisfied I shall die!’’ And then 
tue brothers said: “Cornelius, we feel just the 


58 Gipsy Smith 


same. We have talked about this to each other for 
weeks.” 

Though these three men had been far apart, God 
had been dealing with them at the same time and 
in the same way. Among the marvellous dispensa- 
tions of Providence which have come within my own 
knowledge, this is one of the most wonderful. These 
men were all hungry for the truth. They could 
not read, and so knew nothing of the Bible. They 
had never been taught, and they knew very little 
of Jesus Christ. The light that had crept into their 
souls was “the true light that lighteth every man 
that cometh into the world.” “He, the Spirit, will 
reprove the world of sin, righteousness, and judg- 
ment.” 

As the brothers talked they felt how sweet it would 
be to go to God’s house and learn of Him, for they 
had all got tired of their roaming life. My father 
was on the way to London, and fully resolved to go 
to a church and find out what it was his soul needed. 
The three brothers agreed to go together, and ar- 
ranged to take in Cambridge by the way. They 
drove their wagon to the Barnwell end of the town, 
where there was a beer-shop. The three great big 
simple men went in and told the landlady how they 
felt. It is not often, I feel sure, that part of a work 
of grace is carried on in a beer-shop, and with the 
landlady thereof as an instrument in this divine 
work. But God had been dealing with the landlady 
of this beer-house. When the brothers spoke toe 
her she began to weep, and said, “I am somewhat 


My Father—How He Found the Lord 59 


in your case, and I have a book upstairs that will 
just suit you, for it makes me cry every time I read 
it.’ She brought the book down and lent it to the 
brothers to read. ‘They went into the road to look 
after their horses. A young man who came out of 
the public-house offered to read from the book to 
them. It was The Puilgrim’s Progress. When 
he got to the point where Pilgrim’s burden drops 
off as he looks at the cross, Bartholomew rose from 
his seat by the way-side and excitedly walking up 
and down, cried: “ That is what I want, my burder 
removed. If God does not save me I shall die!” 
All the brothers at that moment felt the smart of sin, 
and wept like little children. 

On the Sunday the three brothers went to the Prim- 
itive Methodist Chapel, Fitzroy Street, Cambridge, 
three times. In the evening a certain Mr. Gunns 
preached. Speaking of that service, my father says: 
“ His points were very cutting tomy soul. Heseemed 
to aim directly at me. I tried to hide myself behind 
a pular in the chapel, but he, looking and pointing 
in that direction, said, ‘ He died for thee!’ The anx- 
ious ones were asked to come forward, and in the 
prayer-meeting the preacher came to where I was 
sitting and asked me if I was saved. I cried out, 
“No; that is what I want.’ He tried to show me that 
Christ had paid my debt, but the enemy of souls had 
blinded my eyes and made me believe that I must 
feel it and then believe it, instead of receiving Christ 
by faith first. I went from that house of prayer still 
a convicted sinner, but not a converted one.” 


60 Gipsy Smith 


We now resumed our way to London, and had 
reached Epping Forest when darkness came on. 
My father put his horse in somebody’s field, intend- 
ing, of course, to avoid detection of this wrong-doing 
by coming for it early in the morning. That night 
he dreamed adream. In the dream he was travelling 
through a rugged country over rocks and bowlders, 
thorns and briers. His hands were bleeding and 
his feet torn. Utterly exhausted and worn out, he 
fell to the ground. A person in white raiment ap- 
peared to him, and as this person lifted up his hands 
my father saw the mark of the nails, and then he 
knew it was the Lord. The figure in white said to 
my father, showing him His hands, “I suffered this 
for you, and when you give up all and trust Me I will 
save you.” ‘Then my father awoke. This dream 
shows how much the reading of The Puilgrim’s 
Progress had impressed him. He narrated the 
dream at the breakfast-table on the following morn- 
ing. When he went to fetch his horses his tender 
conscience told him very clearly and very pointedly 
that he had done wrong. As he removed the horses 
from the field and closed the gate he placed his hand 
on it and, summoning up all his resolution, said, 
“That shall be the last known sin I will ever wil- 
fully commit.” 

My father was now terribly in earnest. There 
were a great many gipsies encamped in the forest 
at the time, including his father and mother, brothers 
and sisters. My father told them that he had done 
with the roaming and wrong-doing, and that he meant 


My Father—How He Found the Lord 61 


toturntoGod. They looked at him and wept. Then 
my father and his brothers moved their vans to Shep- 
herd’s Bush, and placed them on a piece of building 
land close to Mr. Henry Varley’s chapel. My father 
sold his horse, being determined not to move from 
that place until he had found the way to God. Says 
my father: “I meant to find Christ if He was to be 
found. I could think of nothing else but Him. I 
believed His blood was shed for me.” Then my 
father prayed that God would direct him to some 
place where he might learn the way to heaven, and 
his prayer was answered. One morning he went 
out searching as usual for the way toGod. He meta 
man mending the road, and began to talk with hin— 
about the weather, the neighborhood, and such- 
like things. The man was kindly and sympathetic, 
and my father became more communicative. The 
man, as the good providence of God would have it, 
was a Christian, and said to my father, “I know what 
you want; you want to be converted.” “I do not 
know anything about thai,” said my father, “ but 
I want Christ, and I am resolved to find Him.”’ 
“Well,” said the working-man, “there is a meeting 
to-night in a mission-hall in Latimer Road, and I 
shall come for you and take you there.”’ In the 
evening the road-mender came and carried off my 
father and his brother Bartholomew to the mission- 
hall. Before leaving, my father said to us, “ Children, 
I shall not come home again until I am converted,” 
and I shouted to him, “ Daddy, who is he?” I did 
not know who this Converted was. I thought my 


62 Gipsy Smith 


father was going off his head, and resolved to follow 
him. The mission-hall was crowded. My father 
marched right up to the front. I never knew him 
look so determined. The pene were singing the 
well-known hymn: 


‘‘ There is a fountain filled with blood 
Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins, 
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, 
Lose all their guilty stains.” 


The refrain was, “I do believe, I will believe, that 
Jesus died for me.’”’ As they were singing, my 
father’s mind seemed to be taken away from every- 
body and everything. “It seemed,” he said, “as if 
I was bound in a chain and they were drawing me 
up to the ceiling.” In the agony of his soul he fell 
on the floor unconscious, and lay there wallowing 
and foaming for half an hour. I was in great dis- 
tress, and thought my father was dead, and shouted 
out, “Oh dear, our father is dead!’”’ But presently 
he came to himself, stood up and, leaping joyfully, 
exclaimed, “I am converted!”’ He has often spoken 
of that great change since. He walked about the 
hall looking at his flesh. It did not seem to be all 
quite the same color to him. His burden was gone, 
and he told the people that he ‘elt so light that if 
the room had been full of eggs he could have walk- 
ed through and not have broken one of them. 

I did not stay to witness the rest of the proceed- 
ings. As soon as/J heard my father say, “I am con- 





MY FATHER, MY SISTER, AND MYSELF. 





My F ather—-How He Found the Lord 6 5 


verted,”’ I muttered to myself, “ Father is converted; 
I am off home.” I was still in utter ignorance of 
what the great transaction might mean. 

When my father got home to the wagon that night 
he gathered us all around him. I saw at once that 
the old haggard look that his face had worn for years 
was now gone, and, indeed, it was gone for ever. 
His noble countenance was lit up with something 
of that light that breaks over the cliff-tops of eter- 
nity. I said to myself in wonderment, “ What mar- 
vellous words these are—‘I do believe, I will believe, 
that Jesus died for me.’” My father’s brother Bar- 
tholomew was also converted that evening, and the 
two stopped long enough to learn the chorus, and 
they sang it all the way home through the streets. 
Father sat down in the wagon, as tender and gentle 
as a little child. He called his motherless children 
to him one by one, beginning with the youngest, 
my sister Tilly. ‘Do not be afraid of me, my dears. 
God has sent home your father a new creature and 
anew man.” He put his arms as far round the five 
of us as they would go, kissing us all, and before we 
could undersand what had happened he fell on his 
knees and began to pray. Never will my brother, 
sisters, and I forget that first prayer. [I still feel its 
sacred influence on my heart and soul; in storm and 
sunshine, life and death, I expect to feel the bene- 
diction of that first prayer. There was no sleep for 
any of us that night. Father was singing, “I do 
believe, I will believe, that Jesus died for me,’”’ and 
we soon learned it too. Morning, when it dawned, 


64. Gipsy Smith 


found my father full of this new life and this new joy. 
He again prayed with his children, asking God to 
save them, and while he was praying God told him 
he must go to the other gipsies that were encamped 
on the same piece of land, in all about twenty families. 
Forthwith he began to sing in the midst of them, and 
told them what God had done for him. Many of 
them wept. Turning towards his brother Bartholo- 
mew’s van, he saw him and his wife on their knees. 
The wife was praying to God for mercy, and God 
saved her then and there. The two brothers, Bar- 
tholomew and my father, then commenced a prayer- 
meeting in one of the tents, and my brother and 
eldest sister were brought to God. In all, thirteen 
gipsies professed to find Christ that morning. 


CHAPTER VI 
OLD CORNELIUS WAS DEAD 


AND now commenced a new life for my father. 
He felt so new inside that he was sure he must look 
new outside. And so he did. There was a hand- 
glass in the wagon. My father was continually 
examining himself in it. He looked at himself all 
over, at least as much of him as could be perceived 
in the glass, and when he had done this minute in- 
spection he would say to himself, “Is this old Cor- 
nelius?’” It was not. The old Cornelius was dead. 
The new Cornelius was a great surprise and delight 
to my father, and also to his children. As it is writ- 
ten, “If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: 
old things are passed away; behold, all things are 
become new.”’ Christ makes new men and a new 
creation. 

No sooner had my father begun this new life than 
he had to withstand the assaults of Satan. His 
attention was first drawn to his old fiddle. He took 
it down, and I felt sure he was going to play “I do 
believe,” and I asked him to do so. He said, “No, 
my dear, I am going to sel) this fiddle.” I said, 
“No, daddy, do not sell it; let Ezekiel and me play 
it. You et teach us how to.” My father said, 


66 Gipsy Smith 


“No, that fiddle has been the cause of my ruin. It 
has led me into drink, and sin, and vice, and bad 
company. It shall not be the ruin of my boys. It 
shall not be where Iam. I will get rid of it, and I 
shall not have one again until I feel strong enough 
to be able to manage it.’”” So my father sold the 
fiddle and began to preach to the men that bought 
it from him. 

Very soon the third brother, Woodlock, was 
brought to God. The critical event in his life took 
place in Mr. Varley’s vestry. As soon as Mr. Varley 
heard of the conversion of my father and his brothers, 
he invited them to his Tabernacle. He put up a 
mission tent on the ground where the gipsies were 
encamped and called it the Gipsy Tabernacle. A 
lady came to teach the gipsy children in the day- 
time and some young men in the evening read to 
them. The three brothers made a solemn league 
and covenant with each other that they would never 
fall out, and that for Christian work they would 
never be parted. This pledge they kept until death 
dissolved the bond. If you wanted one of them for 
a meeting, you had to invite the three. These three 
men were as simple as children. One of the first 
hymns they learnt and the one that they were most 
fond of singing was 


“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, 
Look upon a little child.” 


And, after all, they were only children, felt themselves 
children always, and possessed all their days a truly 


Old Cornelius was Dead 67 


childlike spirit. Each of them was as sweet as a 
sister, as tender as a mother, and as playful as a 
kitten. They were very fond of singing, and we 
children loved to sing, too. As for anything deeper, 
we did not yet understand the need of it. We had 
no books, and if we had had books we could not 
have read them. Our first idea of God came from 
father’s beautiful life in the gipsy tent—a life which 
was like the blooming of a flower whose beauty won 
us all. If father had lived one life in a meeting 
and another in the gipsy tent, he would not have 
been able to rejoice to-day over his five children 
converted. But the beauty of father’s character was 
most seen in his home life. We dearly loved to 
have him all to ourselves. Nobody knew whata 
fine, magnificent character he was as well as we 
children. Whenever we were tempted to do things 
that were at all doubtful, we at once thought of father, 
and if we had any suspicion that the course of con- 
duct we contemplated would not be pleasing to him, 
we at once abandoned all idea of following it. 
Father’s life was the leaven which leavened the 
whole lump. 

One Sunday morning, seven or eight weeks after 
their conversion, the three brothers set out to visit 
their father and mother. The old couple were camped 
in Loughton Forest,near High Beech. They walked 
all the way from Shepherd's Bush to Loughton, 
and when they got within hearing distance they 
began to sing, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.” 
Granny heard the voices of her boys and knew them, 


68 Gipsy Smith — 


as every mother would have known them. She got 
up, and peering with her old, weary eyes over the 
bushes, said to herself, “ Why, bless me, if them’s 
not my boys coming!’ It does not matter how old 
you are, as long as your mother is living you will 
still be a boy. Then granny, turning to grand- 
father, said, “I say, Jim, come out of the tent and 
see if these ain’t my boys!’ And the three stalwart 
men still marched triumphantly on with proud, smil- 
ing, beaming faces, singing, “Gentle Jesus, meek 
and mild.”’ Then says old granny, “ What in the 
world is the matter with you?” “Oh,” says my 
father, “mother, we have found Christ; we have 
found Jesus; we are converted!’’ My poor grand- 
father walked round the tent, saying, “My boys 
have come home to teach me what I ought to have 
taught them!’’ Granny soon had a meal ready for 
her boys. “Before we eat,” said my father, “we 
always pray now’’; and they all knelt down. As 
soon as they got off their knees, grandfather began 
to cry for mercy, and soon found peace. Grand- 
father’s brother was camping with him, and he, too, 
sought and found the Saviour. He was ninety- 
nine years of age, and lived two years after this, dying 
a triumphant Christian death. Grandfather and 
grandmother were both seventy, and lived five years 
after their conversion. 

Presently the brothers returned to London, and 
soon were deeply engaged in Christian work. The 
gipsies were all turned off the ground where they 
had been staying, and the Gipsy Tabernacle went 


Old Cornelius was Dead 69 


with them. My father hired a field at the rent of 
£25 a year, and all the gipsies followed him there. 
The tents were pitched around the field with the 
mission tent in the centre, and meetings were con- 
tinually held. Once again, however, they got into 
trouble. Several of the antagonists of the gipsy 
Christians got drunk, fought and made a great dis- 
turbance, with the result that the gipsies were sent 
away from the land. We still travelled about a 
little, chiefly between Cambridge and London. The 
winter months we spent usually in Cambridge and 
the summer months on the east side of London. My 
father was anxious that his children should learn 
to read, and he sent us occasionally to school. By 
this he reckons that I must have had about six 
or eight weeks’ schooling at the most, one winter. 
These weeks comprise all my collegiate career. I 
had just enough schooling to learn my letters and 
a little more. The school was at Cambridge, the 
seat of learning; sol ama Cambridge man. While 
working day by day to support their children my 
father and his two brothers never lost an oppor- 
tunity of preaching the Gospel in chapel, in mission- 
room, and in the open air. 

I remember their work in the summers of ’73, ’74, 
and ’75. Their method of proceeding was in this 
wise: father would get out his fiddle, for by this time 
he had another one which he used in his meetings, 
and which proved a great attraction. He was ac- 
companied by his two brothers and all the children 
of the three families. They would start singing and 


70 Gipsy Smith 


keep on singing until three or four hundred peo. 
ple gathered. And then they would commence an 
evangelistic service. The work that stands out 
most clearly in my mind is that which took place 
at Forest Gate. There was a great revival there, 
and as a result a large mission hall was erected, 
which is standing now, I believe. 

About this time my father and his brothers got 
into touch with the Rev. William Booth, the founder 
of the Christian Mission. Mr. Booth gave them 
much encouragement in their work, and told them 
that the way to keep bright and happy was to work 
for God. He persuaded the three brothers to under- 
take a week’s mission at Portsmouth. The town 
was placarded with the announcement that the three 
converted gipsies with their “hallelujah fiddle” 
were coming. So successful was the work that that 
week extended into six, and to us children in our 
tent, father being absent, it seemed almost like six 
years. When he was away, both father and mother 
were away. For he was mother as well as father to 
us. The six weeks seemed much longer to us than 
to the children of my uncles, for they had their moth- 
ers. At last we were told of the day of his return. 
We thought he would come back early, and we were 
ready for him at six o’clock in the morning. Alas! 
he did not come until six at night. It was his cus- 
tom when he came home to embrace us one by one, 
and speak words of tenderness to us. On this oc- 
casion, as on others, we all made way for the baby, 
namely, my sister Tilly. It was my turn next, I 


A 


Old Cornelius was Dead 71 


came after her. But Tilly stayed such a long time 
in my father’s arms that I became very impatient. 
“Look here,”’ I said, “it is my turn now; you come 
out!” “All right,’ said Tilly, quite cheerfully, 
“you get me out of my father’s arms if you can.” 
I knew that I could not do that; so I said, ‘ Never 
mind, there is room for me, too, and I am coming in,” 
and I went. There is room, too, in our Heavenly 
Father’s arms for all. He pours out His love over 
His children with more fulness and tenderness than 
ever earthly father did; and remember no one can 
take us from our father’s arms. 

My father now became possessed with a strong 
desire to go to Baldock, the scene of his troubles, 
awakening, and conviction. He had played his 
fiddle in the public-houses there for years. He felt 
he had done great mischief, and that now it was his 
duty to do what he could to repair that harm. He 
and his two brothers started for Cambridge. It was 
their custom to do evangelistic work as they pro- 
ceeded on their way, and consequently their prog- 
ress was not rapid. They stopped for the night 
just outside Melbourne and placed their wagons 
at the side of the road. The horses were tied to 
the wheels of the wagons and were given plenty of 
food. Then the brothers went to bed. At four 
o’ clock there was a knock at the front door, and 
a voice shouted, “ Hallo there!”’ 

“Who are you?” my father asked. 

“Tam a policeman, and I have come to take you 
into custody.”’ 


72 Gipsy Smith 
66 Why rahe 


“There is a law made that if any gipsies are found 
stopping on the road for twelve miles round they 
are to be taken up without a summons or a war- 
rant.” 

“You must take care,’”’ said my father, “what you 
do with me, because I am a King’s son]!”’ 

When my father got up and dressed himself he 
found that there were four policemen awaiting the 
brothers. They were handcuffed like felons and 
marched off to the lock-up, a mile and a half distant. 
All the way the three converted gipsies preached to 
the policemen and told them that God would bring 
them to judgment if they neglected Him, that they 
would be witnesses against them at the great day, 
and would then declare in the presence of the Lord 
Jesus Christ that they had faithfully warned them to 
flee from the wrath to come. The officers made no 
reply and marched on. It is very certain that they 
had never had such prisoners before, and had never 
heard such a lengthy discourse as they did that 
night. For my father preached to them a sermon a 
mile and a half long. In the cells the gipsies fell 
on their knees in prayer and asked God to touch the 
hearts of the policemen. Then they sang— 


‘“‘He breaks the power of cancelled sin, 
He sets the prisoner free.” 


The keeper said that they must not make such 
a noise. The gipsies asked him if he had read of 


Old Cornelius was Dead 73 


Paul and Silas having been put into prison, and he 
said, “Yes.’”’ Then they inquired of the policemen 
whether they knew what Paul and Silas did. They 
answered, “ They sang praises to God.” “And so 
will we,” said the gipsies; and they began to sing 
again— 


‘‘ His blood can make the vilest clean; 
His blood avails for me.” 


The keeper gave them rugs to keep them warm, 
and his wife brought them hot coffee and bread and 
butter. My father gave her a little tract, entitled 
“The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin,” 
and told her the story of our Lord’s death for sinners. 
She drank in every word, and there and then trusted 
Christ as her Saviour. In the morning the brothers 
were brought before the magistrates and fined 25s. 
each, or in default they must go to prison for fourteen 
days. They had no money, but their fines were 
paid—by whom they never knew. 

When the three gipsy brothers got to Baldock 
they told the people that they had been locked up at 
Melbourne, and the news spread on every hand, with 
the result that the interest in the meetings was very 
greatly increased. The first service was outside a 
public-house, and the landlady and her daughter 
were converted. The meetings were held in a 
meadow, and so great were the crowds that 
policemen were sent to keep order. 


CHAPTER VII 


CHRISTMAS IN THE TENT—A STORY OF THREE 
PLUM-PUDDINGS 


WHEN my father and his brothers travelled about 
the country, all their families accompanied them. 
By this time my father had prayed my sisters Emily 
and Lovinia and my brother Ezekiel into the king- 
dom. They came in the order of their ages. I was 
the next, and in my heart I, too, was longing for God. 
My father used to pray continually in my hearing, 
“Lord, save my Rodney!” 

All this time my father was very poor, and one 
winter at Cambridge we were in the hardest straits. 
My father was sitting in his van, looking solemn and 
sad. That day one of my aunts, I knew, had been 
buying provisions for the Christmas feast on the 
morrow. This had excited my interest, and, boy-like, 
I wanted to know what we were going to have for 
Christmas, and I asked my father. “I do not know, 
my dear,’ he said, quietly. There was nothing in 
the house, and he had no money. ‘Then the devil 
came and tempted him. His fiddle was hanging on 
the wall, and he looked at it desperately and thought 
to himself, “If I just take down my fiddle and go to 
a public-house and play to the people there, my 


Christmas in the Tent 75 


children, too, will have a good Christmas dinner.”’ 
But the temptation was very soon overcome. My 
father fell on his knees and began to pray. He 
thanked God for all His goodness to him, and when 
he arose from his knees he said to his children, “I 
don’t know quite what we shall have for Christmas, 
but we will sing.”” He began to sing with a merry 
heart : 
“In some way or other 

The Lord will provide: 

It may not be my way, 

It may not be thy way; 

But yet in His own way 

The Lord will provide.’ 


Just then, while we were singing, there was a knock 
at the door of the van. 

“Who is there?” cried my father. 

It was the old Cambridge town missionary, Mr. 
Sykes. 

“Tt is I, Brother Smith. God is good, is He not? 
I have come to tell you how the Lord will provide. 
In a shop in this town there are three legs of mutton 
and groceries waiting for you and your brothers.”’ 

A wheelbarrow was needed to bring home the 
store. The brothers never knew who gave them 
these goods. But the word of God was verified: 
“No good thing will He withold from them that 
walk uprightly.”’ 

I remember one of my pranks in these days very 
vividly. My sister Tilly and I were out selling our 


76 Gipsy Smith 


goods. By this time the gipsies were very well 
known in the town. Going from door to door, we 
came to the house of Mrs. Robinson, a Baptist min- 
ister’s wife. She knew my father and his brothers 
well, and she bought some things of us. Then, 
after the business transactions were over,*she began 
to speak to us in a kindly way, and it ended by her 
giving us three parcels, one for each of the three 
brothers. We carried them off in triumphant glee. 
But we could not resist the temptation to open the 
paper parcels and see what they contained. To 
our delight we discovered three plum-puddings. 
Each of us started on one. But we found out to 
our disgust that they were only partly cooked, and 
then it occurred to us—if we had been older and 
wiser it would have occurred to us earlier—that we 
really must not take home to our uncles these pud- 
dings that we had begun to eat. The one we had left 
untouched we carried home like dutiful children to 
our father, and there we thought the matter ended. 
A few days afterwards Mrs. Robinson met Uncle 
Bartholomew and asked him how he liked his plum- 
pudding? He stared at her vacantly. What plum- 
pudding? He did not know of any plum-pudding. 
Would she kindly explain herself? Mrs. Robinson 
told him that she had given Cornelius Smith’s chil- 
dren three puddings, one for each of the brothers. 
Uncle Bartholomew was forced to declare that his 
had never come to him. He spoke about the matter 
to my father, and I will sum up the situation by 
saying that my father explained it very clearly to us. 


Christmas in the Tent ried 


Never since that day have I had the least appetite 
for plum-pudding, and I believe that my sister Tilly 
shares this unnatural peculiarity with me. 

Quite recently Miss Robinson, the daughter of 
Mrs. Robinson, and a prominent worker in connec- 
tion with the Y.W.C.A., met me at a mission and 
asked, “Are you the gipsy boy who knows some- 
thing about plum-puddings?’’ At once the incident 
came back to my memory and we laughed together 
heartily. But let me say to all my young friends, 
“Be sure your sins will find you out. You cannot 
even eat your uncle’s plum-puddings without being 
discovered and punished for it.” 

And this recalls to my recollection how, before 
my dealings with Mrs. Robinson, I had palmed off 
a nest of sparrows as a nest of young linnets, and 
got paid for it as if they were the latter. 


CHAPTER VIII 
THE DAWNING OF THE LIGHT 


BUT, although I was a mischievous boy, I was 
not a really bad boy. I knew in my heart what 
religion meant. I had seen it in the new lives of 
my father, sisters, and brother. I had seen the 
wonderful change in the gipsy home—the trans- 
formation that had taken place there. I had seen 
the transformation-scene if I had not felt it, and in 
my heart there was a deep longing for the strange 
experiences which I knew to be my father’s. I re- 
member well a visit that my father paid to Bedford 
about this time. I shall never forget my thoughts 
and feelings while I listened to the people as they 
spoke of John Bunyan. They took us to see the 
church where he used to preach, and showed us his 
monument. During our stay in the town, I spent 
some portion of every day near the monument. I 
had heard the people say he had been a tinker and 
a great sinner, but had been converted, and that 
through his goodness he became great. And, oh! 
how I looked up as he stood on that pedestal, and 
longed to be good like him. And I wondered if I 
should always live in the “wagon” and spend a 
life of uselessness. I walked to the village where 


The Dawning of the Light 79 


John Bunyan was born, and went into the house he 
had lived in. I stood and wept and longed to find 
the same Jesus Christ that had made Bunyan what 
he was. I never lost sight in my mind’s eye of the 
bright visions that visited me while I was in Bedford. 

I had got it into my mind that religion was a thing 
which first took hold of the head of the house, and 
then stepped down in the order of ages. My heart 
was heavy because I felt that I was standing in the 
way of my sister Tilly, who was younger than I. 
I remember one evening sitting on the trunk of an 
old tree not far from my father’s tent and wagon. 
Around the fallen trunk grass had grown about as 
tall as myself. I had gone there to think, because I 
was under the deepest conviction and had an earnest 
longing to love the Saviour and to be a good lad. 
I thought of my mother in heaven, and I thought of 
the beautiful life my father, brother, and sisters were 
living, and I said to myself, “‘ Rodney, are you going 
to wander about as a gipsy boy and a gipsy man 
without hope, or will you be a Christian and have 
some definite object to live for?’ Everything was 
still, and I could almost hear the beating of my heart. 
For answer to my question, I found myself startling 
myself by my own voice: “ By the grace of God, I 
will be a Christian and I will meet my mother in 
heaven!’? My decision was made. I believe I was 
as much accepted by the Lord Jesus that day as I 
am now, for with all my heart I had decided to live 
for Him. My choice was made forever, and had I 
at once confessed Christ, I believe that the witness of 


So Gipsy Smith 


the Spirit would have been mine, the witness which 
gives one the assurance of acceptance. I knew I 
had said “I will” to God. I made the mistake of 
not declaring my decision publicly, and I believe 
that thousands do likewise. The devil tells them 
to keep it quiet. This is a cunning device by which 
he shuts hundreds out of the light and joy of God’s 
salvation. 

Still I was not satisfied. A few days afterwards I 
wandered one evening into a little Primitive Methodist 
Chapel in Fitzroy Street, Cambridge, where I heard 
a sermon by the Rev. George Warner. Oddly enough, 
I cannot remember a word of what Mr. Warner said, 
but I made up my mind in that service that if there 
was a chance I would publicly give myself to Christ. 
After the sermon a prayer-meeting was held, and 
Mr. Warner invited all those who desired to give 
themselves to the Lord to come forward and kneel 
at the communion-rail. I was the first to go for- 
ward. Ido not know whether anybody else was there 
or not. I think not. While I prayed the congrega: 
tion sang: 

“I can but perish if I go, 
I am resolved to try, 

For if I stay away I know 
I must for ever die.” 
And: 
“TI do believe, I will believe, 
That Jesus died for me, 
That on the cross He shed His blood 
From sin to set me free.” 


The Dawning of the Light 81 


Soon there was a dear old man beside me, an old 
man with great flowing locks, who put his arm round 
me and began to pray with me and for me. I did 
not know his name. I do not know it even now. I 
told him that I had given myself to Jesus for time 
and eternity—to be His boy forever. He said: 

“You must believe that He has saved you. ‘To 
as many as received Him, to them gave He power 
to be the sons of God; even to them that believed 
on His name. ’” 

“Well,” I said to my dear old friend, “I cannot 
trust myself, for I am nothing; and I cannot trust in 
what I have, for I have nothing; and I cannot trust 
in what I know, for I know nothing; and so far as I 
can see my friends are as badly off as I am.”’ 

So there and then I placed myself by simple trust 
and committal to Jesus Christ. I knew He died for 
me; I knew He was able to save me, and I just be- 
lieved Him to be as good as His word. And thus 
the ight broke and assurance came. I knew that 
if I was not what I ought to be, 1 never should be 
again what I had been. I went home and told 
my father that his prayers were answered, and he 
wept tears of joy with me. Turning to me, he said, 
“Tell me how you know you are converted?’ That 
was a poser for a young convert. I hardly knew 
what to say, but placing my hand on my heart, 
I said, “ Daddy, I feel so warm here.”’ I had gota 
little of the feeling that the disciples had when they 
had been talking with Jesus on the way to Em- 
maus: Pa not our heart burn within us?’ The 


82 Gipsy Smith 


date of my conversion was the 17th of November, 
1876. 

How my father rejoiced at my turning to the Lord. 
He said to me: “I knew you were sucha whole-souled 
boy that, before the devil spoiled you, I coveted you 
for Jesus Christ. I knew that you would be out- 
and-out one way or the other. I seemed to see that 
there were in you great possibilities for Jesus Christ.” 

Next morning I had, of course, as usual to go 
out and sell my goods. My first desire was to see 
again the little place where I had kneeled the night 
before ere I commenced my work for the day. There 
I stood for some minutes gazing at the little chapel, 
almost worshipping the place. As I stood, I heard a 
shuffling of feet, znd turning round I saw the dear 
old man who had knelt by my side. I said to myself, 
“ Now that I have my goods—clothes-pegs and tin- 
ware—with me, he will see that I am a gipsy, and 
will not take any notice of me. He will not speak to 
the gipsy boy. Nobody cares for me but my father.”’ 
But I was quite wrong. Seeing me, he remembered 
me at once, and came over to speak to me, though 
he walked with great difficulty and with the aid of 
two sticks. Taking my hands in his, he seemed to 
look right down into my innermost soul. Then 
he said to me: “ The Lord bless you, my boy. The 
Lord keep you, my boy.”’ I wanted to thank him, 
but the words would not come. There was a lump 
in my throat, and my thoughts were deep beyond 
the power of utterance. My tears contained in their 
silver cells the words my tongue could not utter. 


ee ee oe _ 


The Dawning of the Light 83 


The dear old man passed on, and I watched him 
turning the corner out of sight for ever. I never 
saw him again. But when IJ reach the glory-land, 
I will find out that dear old man, and while angels 
shout and applaud, and the multitudes who have 
been brought to Christ through the gipsy boy sing 
for joy, I will thank that grand old saint for his shake 
of the hand and for his “God bless you!’’ For he 
made me feel that somebody outside the tent really 
cared for a gipsy boy’s soul. His kindness did me 
more good than a thousand sermons would have 
done just then, It was an inspiration that has never 
left me, and has done more for me than I can describe. 
Many a young convert has been lost to the Church 
of God, who would have been preserved and kept for it, 
and made useful in it, all for the want of some such 
kindness as that which fell to my lot that day. 


CHAPTER IX 


LEARNING TO READ AND WRITE—PREACHING 
TO THE TURNIP-FIELD—SINGING THE GOS- 
PEL IN THE COTTAGES 


I BELIEVE that with my conversion came the 
awakening of my intellect, for I saw things and 
understood them as I had not done before. Every- 
thing had a new meaning to me. I had already 
begun to spell out a little, but now my desire for 
reading was tremendously intensified. I now had 
something to learn for, and I seemed to have, I did 
not know how, a settled assurance that I should one 
day preach the gospel. At the time of my con- 
version I could only spell and understand words 
of one syllable. I used to get my Bible down and 
begin to read it, alas! sometimes.the wrong way up, 
in my father’s tent or in the corner of a field, away 
from everybody. Many a time have I wept and 
prayed over that Bible. I wanted my heart filled 
with the spirit of it. 

One day I was passing a huge sign-board with a 
red ground and gilt letters. As a matter of fact I 
believe now, if my memory serves me right, that it 
was a brewer’s sign-board. I stared at it in wonder 
and distress. I was so anxious to know what it 


Learning to Read and Write 85 


said. A lady passed, going to market, and I asked 
her if she would read the sign-board for me. “ Why 
do you want to read that?” she said. “Oh,” I an- 
swered, “I really am anxious to know what it says.” 
Then she read the words, and I thanked her. She 
asked me if I knew my letters, and I said, “ Yes, 
I can go over them both backwards and forwards.” 
She patted my black head and said, “ You will get 
on some day.”’ Her kind words were deeply stamped 
on my memory. 

My first books were the Bible, an English Dio 
tionary, and Professor Eadie’s Biblical Dictionary. 
That last volume was given to me by a lady. I ex- 
pect my father had told her that I desired to preach. 
These three mighty volumes—for they were mighty 
to me—I used to carry about under my arm. My 
sisters and brothers laughed at me, but I did not 
mind. “I am going to read them some day,” I said, 
“and to preach, too.”” I lost no opportunity of self- 
improvement and was always asking questions. I 
still believe in continually asking questions. If I 
came across anything I did not understand, I asked 
what it meant—I did not mind. If I heard a new 
word I used to flee to my dictionary. I always kept 
it beside me when I read or tried to read. Then I 
began to practice preaching. One Sunday I entered 
a turnip-field and preached most eloquently to the 
turnips. I had a very large and most attentive congre- 
gation. Not one of them made an attempt to move 
away. While walking along the road with my bas 
ket under my arm I used to go on preaching. I 


86 Gipsy Smith 


knew a great many passages of Scripture and hymns, 
and my discourses consisted of these all woven to- 
gether. My father, too, began to see that this was 
no mere boyish ambition, and encouraged it. A 
Mr. Goodman, in Brandon, Norfolk, advised my 
father to send me to Mr. Spurgeon’s Pastors’ College, 
and I was greatly excited over the idea. But events 
so shaped themselves that this project was never 
carried out. 

At this time, too, I did my first bit of real Christian 
work. One day I was hawking my wares, and, as 
usual, ever anxious to get a chance of telling people 
about Jesus. I went toa large house, and two maids 
came to the door to see me. I began to preach to 
them about the Saviour, and I discovered that they 
were both of them Christian girls. They took me 
into the kitchen, and we had a nice little conversation 
together. On the table was a collecting-box, which 
they told me was one of the British and Foreign 
Bible Society’s boxes. I asked them for a box. 
Their master was the secretary of the Bible society 
for Cambridge, and when they told him, he gave me 
a box. I carried this in my basket for many weeks, 
collecting halfpennies and pennies for the Society. 
When I took the box back to the man who gave it 
me I had collected from 15s. to £1. I never felt so 
proud in my life. 

I was on very good terms with the women in the 
villages. After I had done my best to get them to 
buy my goods I would say to them, “ Would you 
like me to sing for you?” And they usually said, 


Learning to Read and Write 87 


“Ves.”’ Sometimes quite a number of them would 
gather in a neighbor’s kitchen to hear me, and I 
would sing to them hymn after hymn, and then per- 
haps tell them about myself, how I had no mother, 
how I loved Jesus, and how I meant to be His boy 
all my life. Sometimes the poor souls would weep 
at my simple story. I came to be known as “the 
singing gipsy boy.”’ One day one of these women 
was speaking to my eldest sister about her brother, 
and my sister said, “ Which brother?’ “Oh,” she 
answered, “the one who sings and stretches out his 
neck like a young gosling.’’ I could sing then with 
great force, though I was very small in those days 
and very thin. My favorite hymn was: 


* There is a fountain filled with blood 
Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins, 
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, 
Lose all their guilty stains.” 


There is an old lady still living in West Ratton 
who bought a reel of cotton from me when I was a 
boy, and allowed me to conduct a service in her kitch- 
en. She will not part with that reel of cotton for 
love or money. I believe that these little singing 
sermons were made a great blessing. I was sought 
after particularly by the young folks in the houses. 
As my ability to read grew, I learned off by heart the 
fifty-third and fifty-fifth chapters of Isaiah, and the 
fifteenth of St. Luke. I occasionally went through 
one of these chapters for the lesson in father’s meet- 
ings. My father and his two brothers were, of course, 


88 Gipsy Smith 


always engaged in evangelistic work, and I used to 
sing with them. My father says he still frequently 
meets old people who talk about those days. 

In the spring of 1877 we removed from Cambridge 
to London, travelling in our wagons. We did the 
journey in easy stages, which took us five or six 
days. The gipsy brothers held open-air services 
in the villages as they passed through them. Their 
coming was hailed with delight and enthusiasm. 
It was a fine spectacle—these three big, full-blooded, 
consecrated men, standing in the open air, with their 
children around them, singing and preaching the 
gospel. One poor man came to hear us. The hymn 
they sang and that my father played on his violin 
was called, “ Will you go?’ This man came and 
tapped the fiddle on the back and said, “ Didn’t that 
old fiddle say, ‘ Will you go?’” ‘The fiddle won great 
fame as the “ hallelujah fiddle,” and the people used 
to come long distances to the meetings sometimes 
merely to see it. 

During the summer we stood our tents on a piece 
of building land at Forest Gate. One day I was out 
selling my goods, or trying to. My luck varied con- 
siderably. A good day would mean that I made a 
clear profit of perhaps 2s. 6d. That implied about 
7s. 6d. worth of sales. On a bad day, I might make 
only a shilling profit or even a good deal less. But 
on the whole, a father with his wife and children, if 
they were all helping, would do pretty well. Our 
expenses, of course, were small, but my father’s con- 
version increased them, because now he invariably 


Learning to Read and Write 89 


paid for the land on which he stood his wagon and 
tents. Jf I remember rightly, the rent was about 
Is. 6d. or 2s. 6d. a week. There were no taxes to pay 
and no appearances tokeepup. There was no money 
spent on luxuries or on drink, and we lived in a very 
plain style. Guipsies have just two good meals a day 
—breakfast at 7.30 or 8 A.M. and supper about 5 P.M. 
Breakfast consisted of bacon or ham, or boiled meat 
with bread and potatoes, and supper was the same. 
The gipsies are great tea-drinkers. Throughout 
the day we had to beg or buy something to keep us 
going. Most of the gipsy food is either boiled or 
fried, for they have no ovens. They go to bed early 
and they rise early, about five or six o’clock. They 
live on plain food and not too much of it, and con- 
sequently they are very healthy. 

I remember one incident of this time vividly. It 
was a very wet day, and I had taken shelter in an 
unfinished building. The rain was coming down 
in torrents, and there seemed no immediate prospect 
of its stopping. I felt I could not do better than 
spend the time in prayer. I knelt down in the 
kitchen among the shavings, sawdust, and sand, 
with my cap on one side of me and my basket on 
the other, and began to speak to my Lord. I do 
not know how long I continued in supplication. It 
was a sweet and gracious time passing very quickly. 
I was startled by hearing something like a sob or a 
sniff, and, looking through the unfinished kitchen 
window, I saw on the wall which separated the two 
gardens three men with their caps off. They had 


go Gipsy Smith 


been listening to my petitions, and had been deeply 
affected thereby. Their tears fell with the rain- 
dops. If I had been a little older, or had possessed 
a little more courage, J should there and then have 
begun to preach the gospel to them; but I was shy, 
nervous, and frightened, and, taking up my basket 
and cap, bolted out like a wild deer into the rain. 


CHAPTER X 


[I BECOME AN EVANGELIST—THE CHRISTIAN 
MISSION AND REV. WILLIAM BOOTH—MY FIRST 
FROCK-COAT AND MY FIRST APARTMENTS 


I NOW approached my seventeenth birthday. 
My desire to become a preacher grew stronger as 
the days passed by. One Sunday morning I rose 
with the determination to undertake something in 
that line. I arrayed myself in my Sunday best, 
consisting of a small brown beaver hat, a velvet 
jacket with white pearl buttons, a vest with the same 
adornments, a pair of corduroys, and a yellow hand- 
kerchief with a dash of red in it round my neck. 
If gipsies have a weakness in the love of clothing, 
it is for silk handkerchiefs. I sallied forth in this 
attire. The people were just starting off for church 
and chapel. I stood in a little corner some way 
from the wagons. I knew the people must pass 
that way. I took off my hat and I began to sing, 
and after singing I prayed, and after prayer there 
was another hymn. By this time a few people had 
stopped to see what was going to happen. I dare 
say a good many persons about knew me by sight, 
for I took care that I was never long in a place be- 
fore the peopie knew me. I had a way of introduc: 


g2 Gipsy Smith 


ing myself. Iwasa child of nature, and I introduced 
myself as naturally as the flowers do. I told the 
people how I had found the Saviour, what my life 
and desires were, and that I loved Jesus and wanted 
everybody else to love Him, too. They listened and 
wept. When I had said this I began to get very 
anxious as to how I should end. I desired to finish 
off beautifully, but I did not know how. Happily, 
when I had finished what I had to say, I told the 
people that I hoped to do better next time, and then 
I crept back to the wagons, certainly not feeling 
over exultant about my first meeting. I found that 
my father and some of my friends had been listen- 
ing to me. They applauded my zeal, but I do not 
remember what they said about my sermon. 

In the spring of this year I got into touch with 
the Christian Mission, of which the Rev. William 
Booth, now General Booth, was superintendent. 
The headquarters of the mission were at 272 White- 
chapel Road. It had twenty-seven mission stations 
and thirty-five missionaries., They were under 
the control of Mr. Booth, who was popularly referred 
to by the Christian workers as the Bishop. They 
had an annual conference at which speeches were 
made and resolutions were put and voted upon, 
but what amount of directing or legislative power 
this conference possessed I do not know. It 1s cer- 
tain that Mr. Booth was as absolute in his control 
of the Christian Mission as he now is—nominally 
at least—of the Salvation Army. While attending 
some meetings at the mission station in Plaistow, 


I Become an Evangelist 93 


we heard of an all-day gathering that was to be 
held at the mission’s headquarters in Whitechapel 
Road on Whit-Monday. Uncle Bartholomew and 
sister Emily arranged to go and take me with them. 
At the evening meeting there must have been about 
a thousand people present. 

The Rev. William Booth presided. He “spotted” 
my uncle, my sister, and myself, for he knew the 
gipsy brothers well, and availed himself of their 
services. Further, he knew a little about me par- 
ticularly. Some time previously my father had been 
conducting a mission at Leicester with the late Mr. 
William Corbridge, and he had told Mr. Corbridge 
that he had a boy who wanted to be a preacher, and 
whom he thought of sending to the Pastors’ College. 
Mr. Corbridge, as I got to know years later, there- 
upon wrote to Mr. Booth, saying “Cornelius Smith, 
the gipsy, has a boy, Rodney, whom he thinks of 
sending to the pastors’ College. He has a great 
desire to preach. Get hold of him. He might be 
very useful in the mission.’”’” My appearance at 
this Whit-Monday service no doubt brought this 
letter back to Mr. Booth’s mind. After several 
persons had addressed the meeting, he said, “The 
next speaker will be the gipsy boy.’”’ There was 
only one gipsy boy in the meeting, and I was he. 
My first inclination was to run away, but immedi- 
ately the thought came to me that that would never 
do. Said I to myself, “Have I not promised the 
Lord to do whatever He commands me? and, as 
I did not seek this, I feel itis from Him.’”’ Trembling, 


94 Gipsy Smith 


I took my way to the platform, which, luckily, was 
only five or six steps off. When I reached it I shook 
in every limb. Mr. Booth, with that quick eye of his, 
saw that I was in something of a predicament, and 
at once he said, “ Will you sing us a solo?” I said, 
“T will try, sir’; and that night I sang my first solo 
at a big public meeting. It was as follows: 


“HAPPY, EVER HAPPY 


** Jesus died upon the tree, 
That from sin we might be free, 
And for ever happy be, 
Happy in His love. 
He has paid the debt we owe; 
If with trusting hearts we go, 
He will wash us white as snow 
In His blood. 


“Then with joy and gladness sing; 
Happy, ever happy be; 
Praises to our heavenly King— 
Happy in the Lord. 


“Lord, we bring our hearts to Thee; 

Dying love is all our plea; 

Thine for ever we would be— 
Jesus, ever Thine. 

Jesus smiles and bids us come, 

In His loving arms there’s room, 

He will bear us safely home— 
Home above. 





I Become an Evangelist 95 


“When we reach that shining shore 
All our sufferings will be o’er, 
And we'll sigh and weep no more 

In that land of love; 
But in robes of spotless white, 
And with crowns of glory bright, 
We will range the fields of light 
Evermore.”’ 


The people listened with interest and. attention. 
I felt I had done pretty well, that I had made a good 
introduction, and that now I should have a chance. 
I was clearing my throat with a preliminary nervous 
cough—every preacher knows quite well what I 
mean—when a great tall man (afterwards Com- 
missioner Dowdle, of the Salvation Army) shouted, 
“Keep your heart up, youngster!’ I said, “My 
heart is in my mouth; where do you want it?” I 
did not mean the people to hear this, but they did, 
and they laughed, and I was not sorry that they 
laughed, for while they laughed I had a bit of time 
to pull myself together. As far as I can remem- 
ber, this is how my address proceeded: “I am only 
a gipsy boy. Ido not know what you know about 
many thngs, but I know Jesus. I know that He has 
saved me. I cannot read as you can. I do not live 
in a house as you do; I live ina tent. But I have 
got a great house up yonder, and some day I am 
going to live in it. My great desire is to live for 
Christ and the whole of my life to be useful in His 
service.” My discourse was very brief, and I was 
“ery glad when it was done. I had sense enough 


go Gipsy Smith 


to sit down immediately I had finished what I had to 
say. Ido not know that I have been equally wise 
on every occasion since then, As I resumed my seat 
there came from many quarters of the meeting the 
exclamation, “God bless the boy!” 

Mr. Booth kept me beside him until the meeting 
was over. Then he took my arm in his and led me 
aside from the people and said, “ Will you leave your 
gipsy home, your father, sisters and brother, and 
come to me to be an evangelist in the Christian Mis- 
sion?’ I asked him what an evangelist was, and 
he told me. Then I said, “Sir, do you think I shall 
make a good evangelist?’? He said, “Yes, I do.” 
I replied, “ Well, you know more about this than I 
do, and if you think I am of any use, it is an answer 
to my prayer and I will come.’’ The date was fixed, 
25th of June, 1877. 

When I got home to our wagon, I woke them all 
up and told them I was going to bea preacher. They 
had laughed a good deal at my youthful ambition, 
but now it was my turn to laugh. When the morn- 
ing came, I secured my three books and, putting them 
under my arm, walked swaggeringly up and down 
in front of the wagon, full of innocent joy and pride. 
“Rodney is going to be a preacher!’ They could 
not quite realize it, and they talked of nothing else 
for days. After breakfast that morning, I looked 
at my gipsy clothes and said to myself, “If I am 
going to be a preacher, I shall have to dress like a 
preacher.”’ I had saved a little money. I went 
to a clothier and outfitter’s shop and bought a frock- 





px] MY: FIRST > FROCK COAT-. 


N PRE 


wi 


2 
c. s pal 
rea Frey A -) 
io ie 
oe 








I Become an Evangelist 9? 


coat, a vest, and a pair of striped trousers, all ready 
made. I paid for-them and the assistant parcelled 
them up and pushed them over the counter to me. 
I drew myself up to my full height, and putting on 
all the dignity I could command, said, “Send them. 
Do you know I am going to be a preacher?’ So 
these clothes were sent to the gipsy tent. Next I 
went off to purchase some linen. A young lady 
came to serve me and asked me what my size was. 
I said, “I do not know, miss, but if you give me 
a bit of string I will measure myself.’”’ These articles, 
too, I had sent home to the tents. I further reflected 
that when folks went travelling it was proper that 
they should have a box. So I bought a box for half 
a crown, and a piece of clothes-line to cord it up with. 

At last the morning of the fateful 25th dawned. 
I was up early and dressed myself with much care. 
I know that I burst several buttons in the opera- 
tion. I will not say that I felt comfortable in these 
clothes, because the very reverse was the truth. I felt 
as if I had been dipped in starch and hung up by the 
hair of my head to dry. My sisters were whispering 
to each other in the most eager and excited tones. 
“What a swell he looks! Look at his collar! And, 
I say—I declare—look at his cuffs!’’ They called me 
a Romany Rye (gipsy gentleman), and Boro Rashie, 
that is to say, a great preacher. I did not leave the 
dear tent without many tears. I was only seventeen 
years and three months old, and my father’s tent 
was as dear to me as Windsor Castle is to a prince 
of the blood royal. I was leaving people who loved 


98 Gipsy Smith 


me and understood me, and I was going to people 
who certainly would not understand me. It was 
like tearing my heart out to leave them. I kissed 
them all and started off, then ran back again many 
times; and they ran after me. Finally I tore my- 
self away. I had two cousins to carry my box to 
Forest Gate Station, on the Great Eastern Railway. 
I could have carried all that I had in a brown paper 
parcel, but the dignity of the occasion demanded a 
box, and forbade me to carry it myself. I booked 
to Aldgate Station, and I told the guard to put my 
box in the van. He knew me, or atleast he knew my 
father, and I found it difficult to impress him suf- 
ficiently with the dignity of my new position. He 
lifted the box and said with a laugh, “ What is in 
it?’’? I said: “ Never you mind, sir. You are paid to 
be civil and to look after passengers.’’ Yet even 
that did not greatly awe him. “ All right, old man,” 
he answered, laughing; “good luck to you!”’ 

At my destination I was met by one of the mis- 
sionaries, a Mr. Bennett, who took me to a good 
Christian family with whom Mr. Booth had arranged 
that I should stay. I think their name was Lang- 
ston, and the house was in a side street not far from 
the mission’s headquarters, at 272 Whitechapel 
Road. I remember the situation exactly. I arrived 
just in time for a meal in the evening, and for the 
first time in my life I had to sit up to table, and also 
to use a knife and fork. I began to entertain some 
feelings of gratitude towards the starch in which I 
was encased, because, at least, it helped me to sit up 


I Become an Evangelist 99 


straight. I had resolved to watch what my neigh- 
bors did, but they served me first and told me not to 
wait. At the side of my plate was a piece of linen, 
beautifully glazed and neatly folded. I did not 
know what it was, nor what I had to do with it. I 
thought, perhaps, it was a pocket-handkerchief, and 
I said so to my hosts. Immediately, I felt that I had 
introduced a discord into the harmony of the dinner 
party. I was sensitive enough to feel and know I 
had blundered, but my hosts were kind enough not 
to laugh. I said to them: “Please forgive me. I 
do not know any better. [I am only a gipsy boy. I 
have never been taught what these things sie. I 
know I shall make lots of blunders, but if you correct 
me whenever I make a mistake, I will be very grate- 
ful. I will never be angry, and never cross.” I 
felt this was the right course for me to take. I knew 
that airs would not have fitted me at all. 

After supper and prayers, they told me they would 
show me to my apartment. My apartment! I made 
a mental note of the word and resolved to look it up 
in my dictionary at the first opportunity, for I still 
carried about my library of three books with me. 
When they shut the door of my room upon me, I felt 
I was in jail—a prisoner within four walls and a ceil- 
ing! Ifancied there was not room enough to breathe. 
It was the 25th of June, and the East End of London! 
I felt homesick and longed for my tent. Had I not 
often woke up in the morning with my head, or my 
arms, or my legs, outside the tent, on the grass, under 
the ample dome of heaven? Here in this small room 


100 Gipsy Smith 


I felt suffocated. I looked at the bedstead and won- 
dered if it would hold me, and when, by experiment, 
I found that it was strong enough, I turned down the 
bedclothes and examined them, for I had heard of 
the London “company,” and I strongly objected to 
the way they made their living. I got into bed with 
a run, as long as! could have it, andaleap. It was 
a feather bed. I had been accustomed to sleep in 
feathers as long as myself, that kind which grows 
in a wheat-field, and very often I had to make a hole 
with my fist for my ear to lie in. I could not sleep. 
For hours I lay awake thinking of my home, for I 
realized acutely that I was in a land of strangers. 
Such sleep as I had was only in snatches, and I was 
dreaming all the time of my father’s tent and wagon. 

I rose very early in the morning, and at once knelt 
in prayer. I told God that He knew that I was 
among strangers— people who could not under- 
stand my wildness and my romantic nature; that 
He had brought me there; and if He would only give 
me grace I would try to do my best. Then I had to 
attend to my toilet. There was, of course, a wash- 
hand basin and a towel. I was almost afraid to use 
them, in case I should soil them. I had never seen 
such things in use before. It had been my custom 
to run to a brook of a morning and to wash in that 
or a pool near by. I took my bath with the birds. 
At other times I dipped my hand in the grass laden 
with dew and washed myself withit. I was up and 
dressed long before there was any stir or movement 
in the house, but of course I kept to my bedroom 


I Become an Evangelist 101 


until I made sure that somebody else was up. I 
spent the time over my Bible. 

I felt easier at the breakfast table, because I had 
had some experience and at any rate I knew what a 
napkin was. However, | made many blunders and 
broke the laws of grammar, etiquette, and propriety 
again and again. But my hosts were kind. They 
did not expect too much from me. They told me 
when I was wrong, and I was grateful; encouraged 
me when I was right, and I was equally grateful: it 
was an inspiration to try again. You see, I was 
born at the bottom of the ladder, and there is no dis- 
grace in being born at the bottom. There are thou- 
sands of people who owe everything to their father 
and mother, and yet walk about the earth and 
swagger as if they had made creation. I knew I 
had tremendous odds to strive against, and I strove 
to face them as they came one by one. I did not 
face them all at once, I could not: they would have 
swamped me. Each day brought its own diffi- 
culties, iis own work, and there was strength for the 
day also. I received no educational training what- 
ever from the Christian Mission. My schooling and 
discipline was work—visiting the people and taking 
partin meetings. Iwas the thirty-sixth missionary. 
I was stationed at Whitechapel Road, the head- 
quarters of the mission, along with a Mr. Thomas, a 
very able preacher, who is now dead, Mr. Bennett 
(before mentioned), and Mrs. Reynolds. I owe a 
great deal to Mrs. Reynolds. She was as a mother 
to me. The other workers took most of the in-door 


102 Gipsy Smith 


services. I helped in visiting, in open-air work, ane 
occasionally I spoke at an in-door service, but not 
often. Much was made of the fact that I was a rea! 
live gipsy, and I was always announced as “ Rodney 
Smith, the converted gipsy boy.”’ Mr. Booth found 
a home for me, and my father kept me supplied with 
clothes. What little money I had was soon spent. 
I worked in the Christian Mission six months without 
receiving any salary at all. 

When I was called upon to conduct a service alone 
I had to face a very serious difficulty—how to deal 
with the lessons. I had spent as much time as I 
could find in learning to read, but my leisure and 
my opportunities were very severely limited, and I 
was still far from perfection in this art. I certainly 
could not read a chapter from Scripture right through. 
What was I to do with the big words? First of all, 
I thought I would ask a good brother to read the 
lessons forme. “No,” I said, “that would never do. 
I think that the people would prefer me to read them 
myself.” Then I thought I ‘should get over the 
difficulty by spelling out to them any word that was 
too difficult for me. But I felt this would be like an 
open surrender. The plan I adopted was this— 
I went on reading slowly and carefully until I saw 
a long word coming into sight. Then I stopped 
and made some comments, after the comments I 
began to read again, but took care to begin on the 
other side of the long word. I used to struggle night 
after night in my lodgings over the hard words and 
names in the Bible. | 


I Become an Evangelist 103 


But in the meetings I did, I think, pretty well. 
God gave me utterance, and I found myself saying 
things I had never thought about or read about. 
They were simply borne in upon me and I had to 
say them. In spite of mistakes—and I made many 
of these—I was most happy in my work, and always 
had a good congregation. At the headquarters in 
Whitechapel Road I sometimes spoke to well over 
a thousand people, and when I[ went to the mission 
centres at Plaistow, Canning Town, Poplar, and 
Barking, I always had crowded congregations, and 
I never had a meeting without conversions. These 
four happy months passed away very quickly, as 
ina dream. The most memorable incident of my 
work in Whitechapel was the conversion of my sister 
Tilly at one of my own meetings. Some members of 
the family had come with my father one Sunday to 
see me and hear me preach. I have already said that 
I came to Christ myself partly because I felt I was 
keeping Tilly from Him. I was immediately above 
her in age, and the members of our family had been 
converted in order of age. It was while I was sing- 
ing one of my simple gospel songs that my dear 
sister was won for the Lord. Speaking from the 
human side, I may say that my love for her led me 
to decision for Christ, and God repaid me more than 
abundantly by making me a blessing to her. 


CHAPTER XI 


GROWING SUCCESS—WORK AT WHITBY, SHEF- 
FIELD, AND BOLTON—MEETING MY FUTURE 
WIFE--ROMAN CATHOLIC RIOTS 


ONE Saturday morning Mr. Booth sent for me 
and asked me if I had quite settled to my new work, 
and if I had made up my mind to stick toit. I said, 
“Yes, certainly, I have fixed upon.this as my life 
work.”’ “Very well,’’ said Mr. Booth, “we think 
of sending you to Whitby. Are you willing to go?” 
I said, “ Yes, sir.”’? “Can you go to-day?’ I said 
“Yes, sir;’? and very soon I was at King’s Cross 
and on my way. I had been given a ticket for Whit- 
by, which had been bought by Mr. Booth’s instruc- 
tions, and the address of the missioner at that town, 
Elijah Cadman, afterwards Commissioner Cadman; 
but I had no money. This was my first long rail- 
way journey. When we once started I thought we 
should never stop. I had never travelled at such 
a rate before, and I had no idea the world was so 
large. I left King’s Cross at three and got to York 
at eight, where I had to change. I discovered that 
there was no train for Whitby until five o’clock in 
the morning. I was cold and hungry, and I had 
nothing to do but wait. J] had nine hours of that, 


Growing Success 105 


and I spent the time in conversation with the railway 
porters and preaching the gospel to them. I walked 
up and down the platform, and once or twice I found 
a group of people in a public waiting-room and I had 
a chat with them about the Christ I had found, and 
of whom I was ever delighted to speak. 

I reached Whitby at nine o’clock on Sunday morn- 
ing. Nobody came to meet me, but I found my way 
to Mr. Cadman’s house at 16 Gray Street. He greet- 
ed me with the words: “I have been up nearly all 
night waiting for you.” I replied that since three 
o’clock on the previous afternoon I had been trying 
to get to him. After a hurried breakfast, I went out 
with Mr. Cadman and took part in six meetings that 
day, three out-door and three in-door meetings. The 
in-door meetings were held in St. Hilda’s Hall. 

I was now cut off from my first surroundings. I 
had to stand on my own legs, and I was made to 
feel that I must launch out for myself. I developed 
an older feeling and a greater independence of spirit. 
I did more speaking in the meetings than I had done 
in London. My singing was always a great attrac- 
tion, but especially in Whitby among the fishermen. 
I became a great favorite in the town, and much good 
was done. Some of the most prominent and most 
useful local preachers in Whitby at the present day 
were brought to God under my ministry in the town. 
Not a few of the converts were rough people, very 
sadly in need of instruction in Christian ethics. I 
remember one peculiar case well. A man who had 
been a drunkard and a fighter was converted. Soon 


106 Gipsy Smith 


afterwards he was met by one of his old chums from 
whom he had borrowed a sovereign. 

“T say, Jack,’ said the lender, “I hear you have 
got converted.” 

“Yes, I have, and joined the Church.” 

“ Ah well, do you remember some time ago I lent 
you a sovereign?” 

“Ves, I remember.”’ 

“Well, I shall expect you to pay it back. When 
people get religious, we expect them to do what is 
right.” 

“Oh,’’ said Jack, “the Lord has pardoned all my 
sins, and that is one of them.”’ 

We had to put Jack right, and to tell him plainly 
that conversion meant restitution as well as amend- 
ment. The jailer when he was converted washed 
the stripes of the disciples whom he had beaten the 
same hour of the night, and Zacchzeus when he was 
brought to God made a fourfold restitution to those 
whom he had defrauded. And we persuaded Jack 
to do the right thing. 

Among my converts at Whitby was a Miss Pen- 
nock, whom I afterwards became engaged to, and 
who is now my wife. As soon as Mr. Cadman knew 
that I was sweethearting, he communicated with 
Mr. Booth, and I was removed from the town. 

The scenes of my next labors were Bradford, Lon- 
don, and Sheffield. I never preach in Sheffield now 
without a dozen or more people telling me that it was 
through my ministry in their town over twenty years 
ago that they gave themselves to Christ. It was in 





Growing Success 107 


Sheffield, too, that my first salary was paid to me, 
eighteen shillings a week. Fifteen of these went 
for board and lodging, so that I had three shillings 
a week for clothes, books, and anything I wanted 
for the improvement of my mental powers. My 
three shillings per week did not go far when I had 
to visit the sick and the needy. 

I spent six happy and fruitful months at Bolton. 
My fellow-workers, with whom I lived, were Mr. 
and Mrs. Corbridge, who treated me like a son. Mr. 
Corbridge was a very able man, a deep student of 
scripture. Mrs. Corbridge was an educated and 
refined lady, and a noble helpmate to her husband 
in his mission work. While staying with Mr. and 
Mrs. Corbridge, I laid the true foundations of all the 
educational equipment that I ever possessed. Upon 
that corner-stone I have been striving to build ever 
since. I owe more to Mr. and Mrs. Corbridge than 
to any other person in the Salvation Army or the 
Christian Mission. 

The out-door services at Bolton were held in the 
Market Square on the steps of the Town Hall, 
where from two to three thousand people gathered 
to hear addresses by Mr. and Mrs. Corbridge and 
myself. 

We had some difficulties with the Roman Catholics. 
Several of them were converted, and two young wom- 
en brought their beads and rosary to Mrs. Corbridge 
and gave them up. This roused the anger of other 
Roman Catholics in the town and of the priests. One 
night Mr. Corbridge was not feeling well and stayed 


108 Gipsy Smith 


at home, Mrs. Corbridge remaining to nurse him. So 
I had to conduct the open-air service in the Market 
Square alone. The crowd was larger than I had ever 
seen it before. My workers rallied round me and |] 
was provided witha chair. As the service proceeded 
the crowd grew. Until the benediction was pro- 
nounced everything had gone on in peace and quiet- 
ness, but the moment the benediction was said the 
crowd began to sway menacingly. My band of 
workers and myself were in the centre. The swaying 
grew more powerful and the people more excited. 
Then they set up one of those wild Irish Catholic 
yells and closed in upon us. My workers gathered 
round me for my protection. One ferocious woman 
in the crowd took off her clog and struck at me with 
the heel. But just as she was driving the blow home, 
her companion came between me and the heel and 
was felled to the ground. There were a few police- 
men near the spot,and when they heard the yelling 
and perceived what it meant they worked their way 
into the crowd and came to my rescue. I was pushed 
into the nearest shop—a drug store. One of the 
policemen came with me and got me out through the 
back door of the premises. We climbed over three 
or four walls and eventually reached a side street 
which led to quite another part of the town, and so 
reached home in safety. There is no doubt that if 
the mob could have got at me that night, my life 
would have been ended there and,then. The news 
of the riot had already reached Mr. and Mrs. Cor- 
bridge, and their anxiety about my safety had been 


Growing Success 109 


painful. They were very glad, indeed, to see me safe 
and sound in every limb. 

On the following morning, Mr. Corbridge and I 
went to see some of the leading townsmen who were 
in sympathy with our work, and asked their counsel. 
Together we all called upon the Mayor, stated our 
case to him, told him that we thought this disturb- 
ance had arisen because of the conversion of some 
Roman Catholics, and that the opposition plainly 
came from an Irish and Catholic mob; and asked 
him what he advised us to do—whether to stop our 
work or to go on. He said: “By all means go on. 
You are not fighting your own battle merely. You 
are fighting ours as well. You have as much right 
to the square as the priests.”” And so that night 
we again held our open-air meeting in the Market 
Square. Mr. Corbridge had recovered and his wife 
came with us. The crowd was bigger than ever, 
and, as on the night before, there was the most per- 
fect quietness and good order until the benediction 
was pronounced. Then the swaying and yelling 
began. But in the crowd there were sufficient police- 
men in uniform or in plain clothes to form almost 
a chain round us, and, under the escort of this force, 
we were marched off to our home at No. 4 Birming- 
ham Street. The mob followed us all the way, yell- 
ing like furies, and when we were safe in our home 
a number of policemen were put on duty to watch 
the house until all was quiet. 

The riots were, of course, the talk of the whole 
town, but the feeling and sympathy of all respect- 


110 Gipsy Smith . 


able citizens were all on our side. The local papers 
took the subject up and championed the cause of 
free speech. When the powers behind the scenes 
realized that their wrath was going to be unavailing, 
the tumults subsided as suddenly as they had arisen, 
and there was never another voice or movement 
against our work in the Market Square. These 
commotions brought us many friends and sympa- 
thizers that we should never have known of, and, 
instead of hindering our work, greatly helped us. 
We grew and flourished exceedingly, and the Lord 
daily added to the church such as should be saved. 


CHAPTER XII 
“The Word of the Lord Grew and Multiplied.” 


BALLINGTON BOOTH—MY MARRIAGE — THE 
CHATHAM FOSSILS 


My next station was West Hartlepool. During 
these months I was teaching myself reading and 
writing. I had to prepare a good many discourses. 
I soon came to the end of my own native mental 
store, and I had to seek replenishment for my mind in 
study and thinking. And one cannot well study un- 
less one knows how to read. I taught myself writing 
from a copybook, and like everybody else who has 
pursued this method of self-instruction, I found the 
first line I wrote under the copy was always the best. 
As I got farther away from the model, the worse my 
writing grew. The thoughtful reader will see a 
lesson here for himself. The nearer we keep to our 
model, Christ, the more like will our life be to His 
Should not this be our daily prayer: 


“A heart in every thought renewed 
And full of love divine, 
Perfect and right and pure and good, 
A copy, Lord, of Thine ’’? 


My days were spent somewhat after this fashion: I 
rose about seven and breakfasted at eight or half- 


112 Gipsy Smith 


past. Some of the time before breakfast was always 
spent in devotional exercises, and occasionally also 
in a little study. Then I went out to visit the most 
urgent cases. If there were no such cases I spent 
most of the morning in reading, writing, and prepar- 
ing my addresses. The afternoons were occupied 
in visiting. I had a service every night, and the 
service was almost invariably preceded by an 
open-air meeting. On Sunday we had three 
Services. 

My stay at West Hartlepool was brief. Soon I 
received instructions to go to Manchester to work 
under Mr. Ballington Booth, the General’s second 
son. An address was given to me at which I might 
find him in Manchester. When I got there he was 
absent and was not expected home for many days. 
The woman who occupied the house told me that 
she did not know where I was to stay. I left a short 
note with her for Mr. Ballington Booth, saying that 
as he was not there, as operations had not begun, as 
the hall was not to be opened for some days, and as 
I had been working hard and wanted a rest, I would 
go and stay at Mr. Howorth’s, Blackburn Road, 
Bolton, and that that address would find me the mo- 
ment he needed me. That same night I went to 
Bolton and attended a meeting of the Christian Mis- 
sion there. I was, of course, well known to all the 
people. The missionary in charge, a Miss Rose 
Clapham, immediately asked me what business | 
had in her meeting. The people, naturally enough, 
were making something of a fuss of me as an old 


AT TIIE TIME OF MY MARRIAGE. 








Ballington Booth 113 


friend. [ told Miss Clapham that I felt that I had a 
perfect right to be present; I should do her no harm. 
I attended these meetings regularly every night for 
a few days. 

On the Saturday afternoon a telegram reached me 
ordering me to Manchester at once, and saying that 
I was announced to preach the next day. I hada 
very sore throat, and I knew that we had no station 
in Manchester. I replied by another wire that I was 
not fit to preach or sing, and that I should stay in 
Bolton until Monday, resting myself. On Monday 
evening I again attended a meeting of the mission 
in Bolton. To my surprise, whom should I see there 
but Mr. Ballington Booth. Miss Clapham, it ap- 
peared, had gone to Manchester to consult Mr, Bal- 
lington Booth and his mother, who was in Manchester 
at that time, and to complain of my presence at her 
meetings. Throughout the whole of the meeting 
Mr. Booth made no reference to me, never spoke to 
me, and seemed determined to go away without speak- 
ing to me. I placed myself against the door, re- 
solved to bring him into conversation, and wnen he 
saw that he must say something, he took hold of 
me by the arm, and pulling mea little aside he said, 
“Gipsy, we can do without you.” I replied, “ Very 
well, so you shall.”” I am quite willing and ready 
to admit that I blundered there. I had no right to 
take any notice of what Mr. Bailington had said to 
me. He was not the superintendent of the mission. 
He did not engage me to work in it, and he had no 
power opaien to dismiss me. But I was a boy and 


114 Gipsy Smith 


inexperienced and I felt deeply hurt. Sorrowfully 
I went home and sent in my resignation. 

The incident caused a great deal of excitement in 
Bolton, and many of my old friends, some well-to- 
do people among them, besought me that I should 
preach to them before I left the town. I preached for 
six weeks to crowds of people in the Opera-house. 
But I was very miserable all the time. I knew I 
had done wrong and I felt it. I knew that the step 
I had taken was not the right step, and I felt that I 
was not in the place I ought to be. I resolved to 
bring matters to a head, and travelled to Newcastle 
to see Mr. Booth. I asked for an interview with him, 
which was granted readily. I told him I was sorry 
for the step I had taken and for the pain I knew I 
must have given him. I might have had provoca- 
tion, yet I had acted wrongly, and I asked him to 
forgive me. Mr. Booth, from whom I personally 
had never received anything but kindness, treated 
me like a father and forgave me freely. He advised 
me to leave Bolton at once, to go home to my father 
for a few days, and then to report myself at head- 
quarters, where I should receive further instructions. 

I was reinstated as Lieutenant Smith, and sta- 
tioned at Plymouth. My superior officer was Cap- 
tain Dowdle. Just about this. time, early in 1879, 
the Christian Mission was in a transition state and 
was being transmuted into the Salvation Army. The 
old Christian Mission Monthly Magazine had been 
replaced by the Monthly Salvationist. The new 
name for the movement meant new methods an 


Ballington Booth 11S 


titles for the workers. While at Dovenport I was 
promoted to the rank of captain. 

I was married to Miss Pennock, daughter of Cap- 
tain Pennock, of the mercantile marine, at Whitby, 
on the 17th of December, 1879, at a registry-office. 
I started my married life with an income of 33s. 
a week, but I had besides a furnished house rent 
free. I do not think I shall ever know in this 
world how much of my success is due to my wife, 
her beautiful Christian life, and the unselfish readi- 
ness with which she has given me up to leave her 
and the children for the work to which my Master 
has called me. She knows and I know that I am 
doing my life’s work. When He comes to reward 
every bit of faithful service done in His name and 
to give out the laurels, my wife and children will not 
be forgotten. God has given us three children. The 
eldest is Albany Rodney, who was born in Newcastle 
the last day of 1880; then Alfred Hanley, born on the 
5th of August, 1882; and Rhoda Zillah, born on the 
Ist of February, 1884. My eldest son is a sailor boy; 
my second is a student at the Victoria University, 
Manchester, a local preacher on trial, who hopes to 
become a candidate for the Wesleyan ministry; 
Zillahisat home. When she was somewhat younger, 
she once said to me: “Some little girls have their 
daddies always at home; mine only comes home when 
he wants clean collars.’”’ On another occasion she 
said to me, “ Daddy, if you really lived with us you 
would be happy.” My wife and children feel that 

my work is theirs, and that they must not for a mo- 


116 Gipsy Smith 


ment say a word or do anything that would in the 
slightest degree hinder me. Wisely and lovingly 
have my dear ones carried out this principle. 

My first charge after my marriage was at Chatham. 
This station, which was several years old, had never 
been a success. If it had, then it had fallen very 
low. J was sent down to end it or mend it. The 
General had visited the town and knew the situation 
exactly. I shall never forget the reception that my 
congregation, numbering thirteen, gave me on the 
first night. There had been dissension among them, 
and each of them sat as far away from his neighbor 
as possible. I saw there was something the matter 
somewhere, and resolved to set it right if it were 
possible. J sat down and looked at my frigid con- 
gregation for quite a number of minutes. The 
thirteen isolated items were meanwhile exchanging 
glances, mutely inquiring of each other what was 
the matter, and what they were waiting for. At 
length one man more bold than his neighbors arose 
to tackle me, wanting to know what I meant by not 
beginning the meeting. “I am getting to know,”’ I 
said, “ what is the matter with you. I am studying 
the disease—am feeling your pulse. A doctor does 
not prescribe until he knows what the disease is.” 
There was another dead silence, and at length I 
began the service. But my troubles were still to 
come. One old man, who had gazed at me in con- 
sternation and suspicion all through my address, 
said to me: 

“Who sent you here, my boy?” 


Ballington Booth 117 


“The Rev. William Booth, the superintendent of 
this mission.”’ 

“Well, you won’t do for us.” 

“Why, what have I done? Why do you not like 
me?” 

“Oh,” said the old man, “ you are too young for 
cE Ges 

“Ts that it?’ 

te LDAv ISA Ity 

“Well,” I said, “if you let me stop here awhile I 
shall get older. I am not to blame for being young. 
But if I have not any more whiskers than a goose- 
berry, I have got a wife. What more do you want?” 

I held up the book containing the names of the 
members, and I told the people that I had authority 
to burn it if I liked. But I had no desire to do this. 
I wanted their sympathy, prayers, and co-operation. 

I showed the people that I meant business—that 
I was eager for the help of those who were of the 
same mind, and as for the others, they must cease 
their troubling or betake themselves elsewhere. The 
result was as satisfactory as it was sudden. Har- 
mony was restored. The individual members of the 
congregation no longer sat far apart. The people of 
the neighborhood got to know of the change in the 
relation of our members to each other, and came 
to our chapel to see what was happening. The 
congregation grew apace, and when I left, after 
nine months’ service, the membership had risen from 
thirty-five to 250. 

At Chatham we had some difficulties with the 


118 Gipsy Smith 


soldiers and sailors. They took a strange and strong 
aversion to our work, expressed by throwing things 
at us. I believe that the publicans were at the bot- 
tom of the mischief. The civilian population did 
not help us, but simply looked on enjoying the fun 
while we were being pelted and otherwise molested. 
But one day a gentleman came from London to see 
me and discuss the situation. He refused to give me 
his name, and I have never been able to discover it. 
He asked me if we were conscious of saying any- 
thing to aggravate the trouble, and I said no, we had 
no desire to pose as martyrs and we were not seek- 
ing a sensation. The result of the interview was 
soon manifest. We had soldiers and sailors among 
our members, and great was our joy when some of 
them came to us one Sunday morning and told us 
it would be all right now. Early that morning the 
soldiers were called out on parade, and a letter from 
headquarters was read stating that if any soldier 
was found interfering with the open-air services of 
the Salvation Army in the town he would be tried by 
court-martial. Something similar must have hap- 
pened in the case of the sailors, because from hence- 
forth we had no trouble at all. This was particularly 
gratifying to me, because I had never complained to 
the authorities of the treatment we had received. 
I recognized it as part of the cross we had to bear, 
and was resolved to face it out and endure it to the 
end for the sake of the Master. 

I could narrate many incidents of my Chatham 
work. There was one case, at once sad and comical. 


Ballington Booth 119 


A poor, ignorant man—very ignorant—attended the 
services regularly for weeks. One night, as he was 
passing out, he said to me: “I am fifty years of age, 
and have served the devil all the time. But I am 
giving him a fortnight’s notice.’”’ I reasoned with 
him, and urged immediate decision. “Oh no,” 
said the poor man, “I would not like to be treated 
like that myself. I am going to do to others as I 
would like to be done by. But I have given the 
devil a fortnight’s notice.’”” When a week had passed, 
as the poor fellow was again passing out of the hall, 
he held up one finger to signify that the devil had 
just one week longer of him. When the notice had 
expired the devil was dismissed, and the man who 
had been in his service for fifty years entered a ser- 
vice which he liked much better, and which he has 
never left. Hewas for years a true and humble dis- 
ciple of another Master. 

At Newcastle, which was my next station, we had 
many conversions, as we always had. I remember 
well the case of a man whom his mates called 
“Bricky’’’— he was such a hard, tough customer. 
Bricky, with some companions, came to our meet- 
ings—not to be edified, but to scoff and sneer. I 
picked him out among the crowd and went to speak 
to him. He said: 

“Tam a good churchman; I say my prayers every 
night.”’ 

“Do you know the Lord’s Prayer?” 

“Of course I do.” 

Let us hear it, then.”’ 


120 Gipsy Smith 


“The Lord is my Shepherd ; I shall not want,”’ etc. 

I did not seem to have made any impression on 
Bricky. I invited him back, and he came this time 
without his companions. I regarded that as a good 
sign. He came again, and yet again. I saw thata 
work of grace was proceeding in him. He began to 
feel the burden of his sins and to hate them and 
himself too. Finally he gave himself ‘to Christ. He 
was changed from a drunken, swearing, gambling 
sot into a new creature, and was used as an instru- 
ment for the salvation of many others. 

A few weeks after his conversion, as he was com- 
ing one night to the meetings, he passed the theatre, 
where a pantomime was going on, a theatre that he 
had been in the habit of attending. At the door he 
met a good many of his old companions, and they 
said to him: 

“Bricky, we have not seen you for a long time. 
Are you coming in to-night?” 

“No, Icannot come. Iam serving a new Master.”’ 

“Oh, but have you seen the transformation-scene 
this year?” 

“No,” said Bricky. “I have not seen it, but I 
have felt it.’ 

A man and woman who had lived together for 
Many years unmarried came one night into our 
meeting at Newcastle. They did not know of each 
other’s presence there. Neither knew what was 
passing in the mind and heart of the other. At the 
end, in response to my invitation, they both came 
forward among the penitents and I dealt with them. 


Ballington Booth 12! 


Even while they knelt there before God, confessing 
their sins and seeking His salvation and strength, 
each was ignorant that the other was among that 
little company. But presently, of course, the situa- 
tion was revealed to them, and the look of surprise 
and joy on their faces was a sight that will never be 
forgotten by meas long asI live. They told me their 
story, and I asked what they meant to do. They 
said, “We cannot go home together to-night; that 
is certain.”’ I asked them if they knew of any rea- 
son why they should not be married. They said 
there was none; and they ate their wedding-break- 
fast at our house. After this both led beautiful lives, 
adorning the grace that had wrought this miracle 
in them. 


CHAPTER XII 


HULL AND DERBY—A GREAT SUCCESS AND A 
PARTIAL FAILURE 


My next sphere of work was Hull. The success 
which we enjoyed there surpassed anything that 
had hitherto fallen to my lot. The Salvation Army 
had two stations at Hull, one at Sculcotes and one 
which was called the Ice-house. I was present, 
along with General Booth and some leaders, at the 
opening of this second station. All the money ex- 
cept £1,000 had been promised. Mr. T. A. Denny, 
however, offered to give £200 if the people would raise 
the other £800. A deputation of local gentlemen 
told the General that if they could have Gipsy Smith 
as their captain, they would raise the other £800 
during his stay. By this time I had become known 
by the name of Gipsy Smith. At the beginning of 
the work I had been advertised as “ Rodney Smith, 
the gipsy boy.’”’ The people talked about me as the 
Gipsy, and very soon that became my popular ap- 
pellation. But in order to be quite distinct from 
my father and his two brothers, who were always 
spoken of as “The Three Converted Gipsies,’’ I re- 
solved to call myself “Gipsy Smith.” 

The General consented to the request of the local 
friends of the army, and I took charge of the Ice- 





MY WIFE AND MY FIRST-BORN. 





Hull and Derby 123 


house. Never before had I seen such crowds and 
such wonderful results. It was quite a common 
thing for us to have gathered together a thousand 
people who had been converted at the services, and 
what is perhaps even more marvellous, an attend- 
ance of about fifteen hundred at the prayer-meeting 
at seven o’clock on Sunday morning. Very often 
the building was filled, and the street in which it 
stood, Cambridge Street, completely blocked. Many 
a time I have had to get to the platform over the seats, 
as the aisles were so crowded that nobody could walk 
up them. During the whole six months I spent in 
Hull we needed two policemen at every service to man- 
age the crowds at the doors. Some conception of 
the magnitude of the work may be gained from the 
fact that the Ice-house and the other branch of the 
mission, which was much smaller, sold every week 
15,000 copies of The War Cry. 

One of the most notable of my converts at Hull 
was a woman who afterwards came to be known as 
“Happy Patty.”’ Poor Patty had plunged deep into 
the sink of impurity, and for eighteen years had been 
living a life of the foulest sin. She came to the Ice- 
house and, to quote her own words, “stripped off her 
old filthy rags and jumped into the fountain filled 
with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins.’’ She 
went home to her house rejoicing, but she had still 
a hard battle to fight. Her former life continually 
kept coming back and facing her, and she had to 
cut off her right arm and pluck out her right eye. 
The mistakes of her life had been many, the sins of 


124 Gipsy Smith 


her life more, but she became a child of God and a 
great force for good in Hull. Many weather-beaten 
seamen, too, were brought to God by my ministry in 
that old town. 

From Hull I went to Derby. Ido not recall my 
work there with much satisfaction. It was a partial 
failure. Ido not say that I had no success, because 
there was success, and great success, but I felt that 
I had not the success I ought to have had, and cer- 
tainly not the success I longed for. There were 
palpable evidences of worldliness among the mem- 
bers of the local corps. I rebuked them. They did 
not like my rebukes and they did not stand by me. 
I fought the battle practically single-handed, and al- 
though I had some fruit among outsiders and great 
sympathy from them, my labors were not nearly so 
happy or so fruitful as they had been at Hull. I 
became uneasy about my work, and I told the Gen- 
eral, taking upon myself for once to dictate to him, 
that I should hold my farewell meeting on a certain 
date. He made no objection, 


CHAPTER XIV 
HANLEY—MY GREATEST BATTLEFIELD 


I WAS instructed to go to Hanley, and reached 
the town on the 31st of December, 1881, accompanied 
by my wife and one child. The baby was just a year 
old. It was a Saturday when I arrived. The Gen- 
eral had said to me some days before, “ Where do 
you want to go to next?” I answered, “Send me 
to the nearest place to the bottomless pit.”” When I 
got to Stoke station, and began to make my way on 
the loop-line to Hanley, the pit fires came in sight, 
and I could smell the sulphur of the iron foundries, 
and see the smoke from the potteries; I began to 
wonder if I had not got to the actual place whither I 
had asked to be sent. At Hanley station we en- 
gaged a cab, got our trunks on it, and went off in 
search of lodgings. For two hours we drove over 
the town, knocking at many doors. But when we 
said that we were a contingent of the Salvation Army, 
the portals were shut against us. At last a poor old 
Welsh body took compassion on us and took us in. 

I went at once to see the battlefield—namely, the 
building in which the services were to be held. Three 
young men had been sent to the town to commence 
operations two or three weeks before our arrival, 
but they had utterly failed to make any impression 


126 Gipsy Smith 


on the people. The meetings were held in the old 
Batty Circus, a cold, draughty, tumble-down sort of 
place, the most uncomfortable meeting-house in 
which I had ever worked. The ring of the circus had 
been left just as it was when the circus people cleared 
out, and any one who ventured therein was soon up to 
the knees in sawdust and dirt. There were no seats 
in this portion of the circus. On this Saturday 
evening I found two young lieutenants standing 
inside the ring, making it a sort of pulpit. Sprinkled 
over the seats of the building, rising tier upon tier, 
were from twenty to thirty people, looking for all 
the world like jam-pots on a shelf, and singing as I 
entered, “I need Thee, oh, I need Thee.’’ Believe 
me, I stood and laughed. I thought it was true 
enough that they needed somebody. After a brief 
talk with the people I asked them to meet me in the 
Market Place at ten o’clock next morning. 

The two young lieutenants, my wife, and myself 
duly took our stand in the Market Place on Sunday 
morning. Not a soul came out to support us. I 
played a little concertina which had been given to 
me on leaving Devonport by my friends there, many 
of whom were converts. We sang some hymns, 
and people living above the shops in the Market 
Place, thinking we were laborers out of work, threw 
us pennies. I had no uniform on—in fact, got out 
of wearing the uniform when I could, and, indeed, 
never in my life did I wear a red jersey. I used to 
dress somewhat, although not markedly, in gipsy 
fashion. Nobody stopped to listen to us. It was 


Hanley—My Greatest Battlefield 127 


rather wet, and the people who passed by on their 
way to church put their umbrellas in front of their 
faces so that we should not see them. But we went 
on as though we had been addressing a crowd. In 
the afternoon, the four of us were in the open-air 
again. At night, about eighty people attended our 
services in the circus. The building seated 2,500 
people, but these eighty people huddling themselves 
close together, to keep warm J suppose (for the build- 
ing was very cold), sat in the midst of the most ap- 
palling and depressing desolation. It was a very 
dismal beginning, without hope, without cheer, 
without anything that gave promise of success. 

But I was resolved to do what I could in this dif- 
ficult situation. On Monday morning we went to 
the building to see if we could do something to stop 
the draughts and get the windows mended. We 
found a hammer, some nails, and some pieces of 
timber in the empty stable of the circus, and we 
worked with these instruments all day, doing our 
best to make the place habitable. My wife assisted 
by holding a candle when we had to creep into dark 
corners in the course of our labors. I sometimes 
nowadays marvel at the great mechanical skill 
which we discovered among ourselves. It is wonder- 
ful what a man can do, even a man who knows him: 
self to be unskilful, when he is put to it. For two 
weeks we went on hammering and plastering, and 
then I secured the help of my brother-in-law, Mr. 
Evens, a joiner by trade. He spent a few days with 
us, and in that time we made some seats for the ring. 


128 Gipsy Smith 


We got hold of some old chairs, knocked the backs 
off, and planked them together. 

In the mean time we continued our services in 
the Market Place and our audience grew quickly to 
large proportions. The people listened attentively, 
and joined heartily in the singing. But we had 
never more than a hundred people in the circus. 
After a month’s hard labor I asked the General for 
help—something in the way of a special attraction. 
I felt we were not making progress quickly enough. 
The first month’s collections just managed to pay 
the gas bill. There was no money for the poor 
evangelists, and no money for the rent. We did 
not apply for pecuniary assistance, because every 
station was supposed to be self-supporting, and we 
had made up our minds that Hanley would pay its 
way too. The General gave us the services of the 
“Fry family,’ a father and three sons, splendid 
musicians, for a few days. They could sing beauti- 
fully and play almost any instrument. It occurred 
to me that if I could get somebody of local reputa- 
tion to preside at their first meeting we should have 
a good congregation. I was advised to call on the 
Mayor of Burslem, who that year was Alderman 
Boulton, and ask him to preside. It so happened 
that the Rev. John Gould, who was then Wesleyan 
minister at Hull, had just been with the mayor, 
and had told him about my work in that great city. 
On the strength of Mr. Gould’s report, Alderman 
Boulton promised to preside at the first of the Fry 
meetings. 


Hanley—My Greatest Battlefield 129 


I at once got out a huge poster, announcing that 
a great public meeting in connection with the Salva- 
tion Army was to be held in the Batty Circus; that 
the Mayor of Burslem would preside; that various 
speakers would address the gathering, and that 
the singing would be led by the Fry family. The 
alderman was kind enough to invite a good many 
of his friends, substantial business men, to accom- 
pany him to the meeting, so that the platform was 
filled, and there was a crowded attendance. The 
alderman plainly discerned what had been our 
purpose in organizing this meeting, and his speech 
was indeed a master-stroke. He told the people 
tersely, though fully, all about my work at Hull, 
and then he said, “ We have not heard Gipsy Smith, 
and we all want to hear him. I am not going to take 
up your time. The gipsy will address the meeting.” 
I was ready and willing, proud, indeed, to face such 
a magnificent audience. My sermon was very 
short, for I desired to get the people back again, and 
so I sent them away hungry. I never wanted a con- 
gregation after that meeting. As long as we oc- 
cupied this old circus it was crowded at every service. 
The mayor had placed the local hall-mark on our 
work, and we at once entered into the good-will of 
the whole town. 

The work in Hanley, once well begun, went on 
increasing in success and fruitfulness. The revival 
which had its centre in our meeting-place spread 
over the whole of North Staffordshire. There was 
no erste Saag church within ten or twenty miles 


130 Gipsy Smith 


of Hanley that did not feel the throb of it. At the 
end of every week hundreds and thousands of persons 
poured into Hanley, the metropolis of the Potteries, 
to attend our meetings. From 6.30 P.M. on Saturday 
to 9.30 P.M. on Sunday we had nine services, in-doors 
and out of doors. I conducted them all. We sold 
ten thousand copies of The War Cry every week. 
No other station in the Salvation Army has ever 
managed to do this, as far as I know. I cannot go 
into any congregation in the Potteries to-day with- 
out seeing people who were converted under my min- 
istry in that great revival. In America and in Aus- 
tralia, too, I have met converts of those days. I 
preached every Sunday to crowds of from seven 
thousand to eight thousand people, and every night 
in the week we had the place crowded for an evan- 
gelistic service. The leaders of the churches in 
the Potteries were impressed by the work, and being 
honest men and grateful for it, they stood by me. 


CHAPTER XV 
DISMISSAL FROM THE SALVATION ARMY 


AT the end of June, having been six months in 
Hanley, the General informed me that he wanted 
me for another sphere of labor. Mrs. Smith was 
in delicate health at the time, and the ladies of the 
town sent a petition to Mrs. Booth, appealing to her, 
as a wife and mother, that for the sake of my wife’s 
health I should be allowed to stay in the town a little 
longer. The General readily gave his consent. 
When the leaders of the free churches knew that I 
was likely to be removed from their midst, a com- 
mittee was formed, representing all the churches in 
the town and neighborhood save the Roman Catholics. 
This committee, a leading member of which was a 
churchwarden, impressed by the striking work of 
grace which had gone on under my poor little min- 
istry, felt that I should not be allowed to leave the 
district without some expression of their love and ap- 
preciation, and presented me with a gold watch, 
bearing this inscription :—‘‘ Presented to Gipsy Rod- 
ney Smith, as a memento of high esteem and in rec- 
-ognition of his valuable services in Hanley and 
district, July, 1882.” 

My wife and my sister, Mrs. Evens, each re- 
ceived a gift of £5. These presentations were 


132 Gipsy Smith 


made at a public meeting, presided over by Alder- 
man Boulton, who was supported by many of the 
leading persons in the town. The gifts came from 
people who were outside the Salvation Army. The 
soldiers of the army had some intention of making 
us a gift, but we stopped that movement, as we knew 
that, the General did not approve of such presenta- 
tions. 

To my surprise, about two weeks after, Major 
Fawcett, my superior officer, called on me about 
these presents. He said that he was sent to ask me 
what I had to say about these testimonials. I said 
that the gifts had not come from soldiers of the army, 
that they came entirely from outsiders, that I had done 
no more than many other officers, and that a little 
while ago an officer in Birmingham had received a 
silver watch. I added that when I received the gifts 
I rather felt that head-quarters would be delighted 
that we had made such an impression on the town, 
and that outsiders were showing. appreciation of our 
work. The major told me that I should hear from 
London shortly. On August 4th a telegram ar- 
rived for the two lieutenants, who had received silver 
watches from the same committee, summoning them 
to London. There was no communication for me 
that day. These young men had been with the 
Salvation Army for six months, and I had been for 
five years. The young men came to seek my advice. 
I urged them to obey the summons at once. They 
reached London early next morning, and on their 
arrival at the Training Home in Clapton, they were 


Dismissal from the Salvation Army 133 


told that if they did not give up their watches they 
must leave the army. 

On Saturday morning, August 5th, about six 
o’clock, my second baby was born, a son. The 
morning post, a few hours later, brought me the fol- 
lowing letter from Mr. Bramwell Booth: 


‘We understand on Monday, July 31st, a presentation 
of a gold watch was made to you at Hanley, accompanied 
by a purse containing £5 to your wife, and the same to your 
sister. 

“We can only conclude that this has been done in pre- 
meditated defiance of the rules and regulations of the army 
to which you have repeatedly given your adherence, and 
that you have fully resolved no longer to continue with us. 
The effect of your conduct is already seen to have led younger 
officers under your influence also astray. 

‘“‘ Having chosen to set the General’s wishes at defiance, 
and also to do so in the most public manner possible, we 
can only conclude that you have resolved to leave the army. 
Anyhow, it is clear that neither you nor your sister can 
work in it any longer as officers, and the General directs 
me to say that we have arranged for the appointment of 
officers to succeed you at Hanley at once.”’ 


I was greatly upset by this letter. Some of the 
statements in it were wholly inaccurate. In the 
first place, I had never given my adherence to any 
rule forbidding the officers of the army to receive 
presents. I knew that at a conference of officers 
the General had made a statement in regard to this 
matter. He strongly disapproved of the practice, 


134 Gipsy Smith 


for the reason that some officers, leaving their stations 
in debt, went off with costly gifts. Moreover, the 
tendency was that while successful officers received 
presents, those who had not been successful got none. 
This, of course, was not conducive to good feeling 
and discipline. I ought to say that throughout 
his speech the General was referring to gifts from 
soldiers of the army—at least this was my impres- 
sion. It did not apply to presents, such as mine 
had been, from outsiders. Another grossly inac- 
curate statement in the letter was that I had led astray 
two younger officers. The two young lieutenants 
accepted their watches without consulting me and 
without receiving any advice from me. 

None of us had ever dreamed that trouble would 
come from these presentations. The letter was 
totally unexpected, and gave me a painful shock. I 
was utterly overwhelmed, and such a communica- 
tion reaching me a few hours after the birth of my 
second son, was in the greatesi’ degree depressing. 
The letter was not only inaccurate, it was ungra- 
cious. There was no word of appreciation for my 
five years’ hard work, for I had held some of their 
most important commands, and had succeeded as 
few others of their officers had done. During that 
summer | had often secretly thought that some day 
I might leave the army, but I never gave expression 
to these sentiments except to my wife. I had written 
out my resignation twice, but my wife had prevailed 
upon me not to send it, and so the letters were put 
in the fire. I knew in my own heart that I was nota 


Dismissal from the Salvation Army 135 


Salvationist after their sort. I felt thoroughly at 
home in the Christian Mission, but rather uncom- 
fortable and out of place in the Salvation Army. 
I did not like the uniform, I did not care for the titles 
nor for the military discipline. My style was not 
quite Salvationist enough. Still I succeeded, and 
the army gave me a splendid sphere for work and an 
experience which no college or university could have 
supplied me with. But I had never had any desire 
to leave in this abrupt fashion. I had hoped to 
withdraw in the most friendly manner and to re 
main on good terms with the movement and its 
leaders. But this was not to be. My heart was 
heavy as the prospect of parting from beloved 
friends and comrades opened, blank and bare, before 
my soul. 

I took the letter to my wife and read it to her. She 
felt greatly hurt, because she had been very loyal 
to the army and its leaders, but she bore it bravely 
and was very ready to stand by me. My first im- 
pulse was to take the letter to the editor of the local 
paper, and then I thought, “No, Sunday is before 
me; I will keep the matter to myself till the end of 
the Sunday services.’’ I determined in this way 
to communicate the news to all those who sympa- 
thized with me and my work. There were great 
congregations all day. I required no small amount 
of strength to go through my work, but I was won- 
derfully sustained. I preached the gospel as faith- 
fully as I could, despite the burden on my heart. 
At the evening service the building was crowded 


136 Gipsy Smith 


to suffocation. I had stated at the morning and 
afternoon services that I had a very important in- 
timation to make at the close of the evening service. 
I arose in a stillness that could be felt to read the 
letter from Mr. Bramwell Booth. When I[ had fin- 
ished, there was an extraordinary scene. I needed 
all the self-possession and tact that I could summon 
to my aid to quell the anger of the people. They 
began to hiss. But I said, “That is not religion. 
We have preached charity, and now is the time to 
practice what we have preached.’’ And they dis- 
persed quietly, but in a state of great excitement. 

In the mean time I had replied to the letter from 
Mr. Bramwell Booth. I concluded my answer thus: 
“T need not say how sorry we all are in reference 
to the steps taken in the matter. You know I love 
the ‘army’ and its teachings, but, as you wish, I 
shall say ‘farewell’ on Sunday. But I shall reserve 
the right to say that you have turned us out of the 
‘Army’ because we have received the presentations. 
I can hold the world at defiance as regards my moral 
and religious life. If I leave you, I do so witha clear 
conscience and a clean heart. Of course, my sister 
and myself hold ourselves open to work for God 
wherever there is an opening.” 

Early the next morning the testimonial committee 
was called, and meetings were held every day of that 
week up to and including Thursday. They sent 
communications to the General, stating how sorry 
they were that my dismissal had arisen out of their 
act, an act which was one of good-will and in loving 


Dismissal from the Salvation Army 137 


appreciation of Gipsy Smith’s services. They said 
that if they had known what the result would be, 
they would rather have lost their arms. No good 
was accomplished by the letters, and so a deputation 
was sent to London to see the General. It was ar- 
ranged that they should send a telegram to the meet- 
ing at Hanley on Thursday night announcing the 
final decision, The place was crowded to receive 
it. The telegram said: “Dismissal must take its 
course.”’ Immediately there was a scene of the 
wildest confusion. 

At the close of my last Sunday’s services as an 
officer of the Salvation Army we found two brass 
bands outside waiting for us. I had no desire for 
demonstrations of this sort, and had no knowledge 
of these elaborate preparations. Two big Irishmen 
seized me and lifted me on to their shoulders, my sister 
was politely placed in an arm-chair, and the bands, 
accompanied by great crowds, carried us all round 
the town, and finally took us home. From five thou- 
sand to ten thousand people gathered outside the 
house on a piece of vacant land. They shouted for 
me again and again, and I had to address them from 
the bed-room window before they would move away. 

And so ended my connection with the Salvation 
Army. It has given me anything but pleasure to 
set forth the story of my dismissal, but I have felt 
—so important and cardinal an event it was in my 
life—that it must be told in full. I have not the least 
desire, and I am sure that my readers will believe 
this, to damage in the slightest degree the leaders 


138 Gipsy Smith 


and workers of the Salvation Army. I consider it 
one of the greatest and most useful religious move- 
ments of the last century. Its great service to the 
Christianity of our country was that it roused the 
churches from their apathy and lethargy, and awoke 
them to a sense of their duty towards the great 
masses who were without God and without hope in 
the world. I shall always be grateful for my ex- 
periences in the Salvation Army, and I look upon 
the dismissal as providential. God overruled it. If 
I had carried out the intention that I had formed 
some time previously and had resigned quietly, 
nothing would have been said or heard about me in 
that connection at any rate; but the dismissal gave 
me an advertisement in all the papers of the land 
which cost me nothing and procured for me hun- 
dreds and thousands of sympathizers. 

I have the warmest feelings of love and admiration 
for General Booth. He gave me my first oppor- 
tunity as an evangelist, and he’ put me in the way of 
an experience which has been invaluable to me. I 
think that William Booth is one of the grandest men 
that God ever gave to the world. His treatment of 
me was always kind and fatherly. I do not myself 
share the frequently expressed view that Mrs. Booth 
was the real founder and leader of the army. Gen- 
eral Booth is too gracious and chivalrous, and, be- 
sides, he has too profound a sense of what he owes 
to his beloved and lamented wife, to contradict this 
view. But, for my part, I believe that William Booth 
was both the founder and the leader of the Salvation 


Dismissal from the Salvation Army 139 


Army. Catherine Booth was undoubtedly a great 
woman, a great saint, and an able preacher, but even 
as a preacher she was in my opinion greatly inferior 
to the General. I always feel when I read her printed 
sermons that I know very much what is coming, for 
there is a sameness about her addresses and sermons. 
But the General, on the other hand, never gave an 
address or preached a sermon without introducing 
something quite fresh. He is more original and 
more ready than his wife was, and had he given his 
time solely to the pulpit he would have been one of 
the greatest preachers. But for many years he was 
fully occupied in the defence and explanation of the 
methods and aims of the Salvation Army. I have 
heard him talk for nearly a whole day at officers’ 
conferences in a simply marvellous fashion—with- 
out intermission, full of ideas, practical and possible, 
and full of common-sense. He was splendidly sec- 
onded in his work by Mrs. Booth, and has at the pres- 
ent time able coadjutors in his children. The of- 
ficers of the Salvation Army are men of intelligence 
and zeal. I have the happiness to number a good 
many of them among my friends to-day. Some of 
them, indeed, were brought to God under my min- 
istry. 


CHAPTER XVI 
HANLEY AGAIN 


THE excitement in the Potteries over the dismissal 
was simply indescribable. I received letters of sym- 
pathy from all quarters. Among the kindest of 
them was one from the Rev. Thomas De Vine, vicar 
of Northwood. Mr. De Vine, writing from Great 
Smeaton, near Northallerton, on August 8, 1882, 
said: 


“MY DEAR SIR,—I have just heard in this distant 
place, where I am staying for a little while, seeking rest 
and change after my recent bereavement, of the very severe 
and uncalled-for enforcement of discipline by your com- 
mander, and desire to express my deep sympathy with you 
under it, and to urge you to look up to the Great Commander, 
the Lord Jesus Christ, in the interests of whose cause and 
kingdom I believe you to have labored since your coming 
to Hanley, and He will cheer you and comfort you, because 
He knows the spring from which all our actions flow. I 
should be glad if something could be done to retain your 
services in Hanley, where evidently the Lord hath blessed 
you. Were I at home, I could talk on the matter with you. 
Suffer me to commend you to God and the word of His 
grace. “Yours faithfully, 

“THOMAS DE VINE.” 





CAPTAIN 


GIPSY SMITH, OF THE SALVATION 


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Hanley Again 141 


For about ten days I remained in Hanley, holding 
meetings in the neighboring towns arranged by the 
testimonial committee, in whose hands I was. From 
every one of these meetings I was carried home shoul- 
der-high and accompanied by a brass band, a dis- 
tance of from one and a half to two miles. There 
was no escaping from these demonstrations. The 
people were simply irresistible. If I took a cab they 
pulled me out of it. I was riding on the crest of the 
wave. But I felt that this excitement could not keep 
on long, that it must soon spend itself. Accordingly, 
I went to Cambridge for a week, in order to secure 
quiet, to realize myself, and to think calmly and 
prayerfully over the situation. I was made to prom- 
ise that when I came back I would hold meetings 
on the Sundays, wherever the committee decided upon. 
In my absence at Cambridge the Imperial Circus, a 
building capable of seating over four thousand peo- 
ple, was secured for next Sunday’s meetings. It had 
been built at a cost of £14,000, but the circus com- 
pany had failed, and the structure, which stood on 
three thousand square yards of land, was in the hands 
of the National Provincial Bank. 

When I returned for a Sunday’s services the con- 
gregations were overwhelming. At these meetings 
the committee made a strong appeal to me to remain 
in Hanley for the sake of the work, of the hundreds 
of people who had been rescued from sin and misery, 
and of the hundreds more who were ready to listen 
to me. Mr. William Brown, a miners’ agent, very 
well known in the district, made a speech in which 


142 Gipsy Smith 


he asked my sister and myself, “for the sake of the 
suffering poor and the cause of Christ,’ to recon- 
sider our determination to labor as general evangel- 
ists and to confine ourselves to the Potteries and the 
neighboring towns. The committee disclaimed any 
intention of acting in opposition to the work of the 
Salvation Army. I had told the people that since 
General Booth had dismissed me from the army | 
had received letters every morning inviting me to 
conduct special missions in different parts of the coun- 
try. I said to the vast congregation that I must have 
time to consider my decision, and intimated that we 
intended leaving Hanley again at once for a week 
to recruit our health. There were at least twelve 
thousand people in these three Sunday meetings. | 
felt that I must really get away from these crowds 
and the excitement. 

In my absence my friends and sympathizers were 
busy. The Rev. M. Baxter, editor of the Christian 
Herald, and the promoter of “The Gospel Army” 
movement, took a leading part, along with the local 
men, in the deliberations. At first there were some 
doubts about taking the Imperial Circus, but Mr. 
Baxter stated that if the committee did not see their 
way to do this, he would himself hire the building 
for religious services. Accordingly the circus was 
secured by the committee for three months. It 
was arranged that two ladies connected with the 
Gospel Army movement should conduct the services 
until I could make my own arrangements. Alder- 
man W. Boulton, Mayor of Burslem, a Wesleyan 


Hanley Again 143 


Methodist, was elected president of the committee; 
the Rev. T. De Vine, Vicar of Northwood, and Coun- 
cillor Nichols, Wesleyan Methodist, vice-presidents ; 
Mr. R. Finch, a Wesleyan local preacher and former 
treasurer of the Salvation Army local corps, was 
elected treasurer; Mr. James Bebbington, correspond- 
ing secretary ; and Mr. Hodgson, financial secretary. 
The other members of the committee included Mr. 
Tyrrell, a churchwarden; Mr. W. T. Harrison, a Con- 
gregationalist; and Mr. Bowden, a New Connexion 
Methodist, and this year (1901) Mayor of Burslem. 
It was altogether a very strong and representative 
committee, and remains so to this day. 

My committee, you will see, was thoroughly 
representative of the free churches, of the towns- 
people, including business men and the hundreds 
of working people who had been converted during 
our stay in the town. Besides, many joined us out 
of mere love of fair play and sympathy with those 
whom they thought to have been uncharitably dealt 
with. I had promised to stay a month, but the 
month grew into four years in all. The fact is, that 
when the month was up the work had become so 
important and so large that I felt it would have been 
sinful to leave it just then. Under the control of 
my strong committee, it went on with an ever-in- 
creasing volume and force. They paid me £300 
a year for my services. The building for nearly two 
years was crowded every night and at the three 
services on Sunday. We had the largest congrega- 
tion outside London. The result of these labors 


144 Gipsy Smith 


is to be found in many homes. In hundreds of 
churches and Sunday-schools to-day all over the 
land and in other lands are found officers, teachers, 
superintendents, class leaders, local preachers, and 
Christian workers who were converted under my 
preaching, while many others who were at that time 
turned unto God have passed in triumphant deaths 
to their reward. Our mission was an inspiration to 
the churches. It will be remembered that when I 
first started my open-air work at Hanley the people 
threw pennies to us, thinking that we were laborers 
out of work. But very soon I beheld the leaders of 
the free churches, their ministers even, engaged in 
open-air work. And even the incumbent of St. 
John’s, with his white surplice and his surpliced 
choir, began to conduct open-air services in the 
Market Place, marching through the streets, after the 
service was over, to the old church, singing “ Onward, 
Christian soldiers.’’ I regard the action of the vicar 
in some ways as the greatest'compliment that was 
ever paid to me in Hanley. 

It was our custom to meet at 5.30 on Sunday night 
for a prayer meeting, preceding the large public meet- 
ing at 6.30. The place of gathering was a large side 
room, which had been used by the circus people 
as a dressing-room, and was situated over the stables. 
Late in October, 1882, three hundred of us were in 
this room, singing praises to God and asking for 
His blessing on the coming service. While we were 
singing a hymn the floor opened in the centre and 

‘dropped us all down into the stables, a distance of 


Hanley Again 145 


ten or eleven feet. Seventy-five persons were in- 
jured ; arms and legs were broken, a few skulls were 
fractured, and there were bruises galore. But not 
a life was lost. The people, gathering in the large 
hall, heard the crash and were terrified, but there was 
no panic. Some of the stewards were on the spot, 
giving all the help they could. Doctors were sent 
for, and the injured were taken home in cabs. As 
soon as I could extricate myself from the falling 
débris, it occurred to me that the people in the great 
building would be in fear as to my safety. I rushed 
to the platform, explained in a few simple words 
what had taken place, told the people that all possible 
help and attendance was being rendered to the in- 
jured, and begged them to keep calm and cool. And 
then I retired to pass a few minutes of acute agony. 
I was urged to give up the service that night, for 
though my body bore no bruises, my nerves had 
sustained a severe shock. However, I insisted on 
taking my place. 

But our troubles werenot yet over. When I reached 
the platform I quietly asked the caretaker to turn 
on the lights full, and he, poor fellow, in his nervous- 
ness and excitement, turned them out. Immediately 
there was a scene of confusion and fear. Mr. Brown, 
the miners’ agent before mentioned, saved the situa- 
tion by his presence of mind. He at once began to 
sing “ Jesus, Lover of My Soul,” and sang it with 
great effect, for he was a very good singer. The 
people presently joined in the hymn, and very soon 


all were calm. In the mean time the lights had been 
IG 


146 Gipsy Smith 


put full on and the service swung on its way. I 
preached as well as I could, but at the close of the 
service—so much had the nervous shock weakened 
me—I had to be carried home. Months passed 
away before I really quite recovered. I went on 
with my work, but not without fear and trembling. 
Even now, occasionally, when I am face to face with 
a great crowd, something of the feeling of that night 
comes back to me. 

None of these things—not even my dismissal from 
the Salvation Army—at all hindered our work of 
saving and redeeming men. The revival swept on 
like a mighty river, carrying everything before it. 
Strangers to the town seldom went away without 
paying a visit to the mission and witnessing for 
themselves the work that we were doing. And so, 
when I visit towns to-day, people frequently say to 
me, “Oh, Mr. Smith, I heard you at Hanley in the 
old days.” 

In March, 1883, my friends in Hull invited my 
sister and myself to conduct a fortnight’s mission 
in their town. I had many spiritual children in 
Hull, and I was naturally eager to see them. My 
Hanley committee granted me leave of absence. 
We were welcomed at Hull Station by from ten thou- 
sand to twenty thousaod people. A carriage, with 
a pair of gray horses, was waiting for us to convey 
us to our hosts. But the people unyoked the horses 
and dragged usin the carriage all over thecity. The 
meetings were held in Hengler’s Circus, a building 
with accommodation for over four thousand people. 


Hanley Again 147 


This was all too small for the crowds that gathered 
every night. When the fortnight came to an end the 
committee who had arranged the mission determined 
that the work should not cease, and resolved to estab- 
lish a local mission of theirown. It was settled there 
and then that my sister and Mr. Evens, to whom 
she was shortly to be married, should take charge of 
the Hull Mission, and that they and I should change 
places pretty frequently for a week or a fortnight. 
Mr. Evens, who was by trade a joiner, had been a 
captain in the Salvation Army, and, I may say here, 
has for the last eight or nine years been engaged 
along with his wife in the Liverpool Wesleyan Mis- 
sion. For nearly two years our arrangements for 
the Hull Mission continued and worked well. At the 
end of that period Mr. Evens took up the work of 
a general evangelist, and Rev. G. Campbell Morgan, 
who has since acquired a world-wide reputation, 
succeeded him. It was thus I first met Mr. Morgan, 
and from the beginning I formed the highest opin- 
ion of him. My expectations of his usefulness and 
eminence have been fully realized, but not more fully 
than I anticipated. After eighteen months’ good 
service at Hull he settled at Stone; thence he was 
transferred to Rugeley; thence to Birmingham; 
thenceto London. The rest is known to all the world. 

In the summer of the same year I had my first 
experience of foreign travel. I went on a trip to 
Sweden, as the guest of Dr. and Mrs. Kesson and of 
the late Mrs. Poulton. They were members of the 
Hull Mission committee. I had some delightful 


148 Gipsy Smith 


experiences during this pleasant holiday. My first 
Sunday morning in Sweden was spent at Stockholm. 
I went to the meeting of the Salvation Army. The 
captain was a Dane, who had been trained at the 
army home in London. I had not been five minutes 
in the building, where some five hundred people were 
gathered, before they found me out, and asked me to 
sing. I gave them ‘ Oh, Touch the Hem of His Gar- 
ment.’’ The captain told the people the number of 
the hymn in the Swedish army hymn-book, and while 
I sang in English they took up the chorus in their 
own tongue. There were tears in the eyes of many 
strong men as the sweet hymn found its way to their 
hearts. I sang again in the evening meeting. At 
both services I spoke a few words, which were 
translated to the listeners. 

One day I went to the King’s palace and saw the 
splendid furniture and the beautiful rooms. As we 
stood in the corridor the King himself passed down 
and graciously nodded to us. On another occasion 
we went to see the King reviewing histroops. Amid 
all the military show one little incident touched me 
most. A little sweep came running past the spot 
where the King was on his horse. His face was 
black and his feet were bare, but as he passed the 
monarch of Sweden he raised his dirty hand and 
saluted his sovereign. The King smiled upon the 
little fellow and returned the salute. Immediately 
afterwards a dashing officer came galloping up on a 
fine horse. His uniform shone like gold and his 
sword rattled as he careered bravely along. He also 


Hanley Again 149 


saluted his King. The King saluted back with all 
the dignity of a sovereign, but I thought I missed 
the kindly gleam of the eye with which he had greet- 
ed the waving of the little sweep’s dirty hand, and 
I said to myself: ‘‘ This King loves the little sweep 
as much as the fine officer. And I love him for it.” 

The work in Hanley went on without any abate- 
ment of interest, attendance, or result. Having to 
face the same huge congregation so constantly, I 
began to feel acutely the need of wider reading. I 
had read very little outside my Bible until I left the 
army. My time had been fully occupied in teaching 
myself to read and write and in preparing my ad- 
dresses. Remaining, at the longest, only six or 
seven months in each place, my need of more ex- 
tensive knowledge had not been brought straight 
home to me. But now my stay in Hanley was 
extending into years, and I must have something 
fresh to offer my congregation every time I met it. 
And so I set myself to study. My first reading 
outside my Bible consisted of Matthew Henry’s 
Commentaries, the lives of some early Methodists, 
the Rev. Charles Finney’s Lectures on Revival 
Sermons to Professing Christians, and The Way 
to Salvation, and the books of Dr. Parker, Dr. 
McLaren, Robertson of Brighton, something of 
Spurgeon and of John Wesley. At this time, too, 
I began to taste the writings of Scott, Dickens, 
Thackeray, Tennyson, Whittier, Byron, Longfellow, 
George Eliot, and just a very little of Carlyle and 
Ruskin. 


150 Gipsy Smith 


I read for two things—ideas, and a better grip of 
the English language. As I toiled through these — 
pages—for my reading was still toiling—I lived in a 
new world. What anignorant child‘I felt myself to 
be! I felt confident, too, that some day the people 
would find out how little I knew and get tired of 
coming to hear me. But they were kind and patient 
and put up with my many blunders and limitations, 
for they loved me and they knew I loved them. I 
was to multitudes of them a spiritual father, and even 
to some of them a grandfather. Whenever I was 
announced to preach the people came and God gave 
the blessing. This was my comfort and encourage- 
ment. Without these supports I should have utterly 
failed. My soul was possessed of a deep thirst for 
knowledge, and I greedily drank in my fill during 
the few hours I could find forreading. ForI had nine 
public services a week, each preceded by an open- 
air meeting, and I had much visiting to do. Con- 
sequently the time for reading, even with a view to 
my work, was short. When I look back upon those 
days I humbly and gratefully marvel at the great use 
God was able to make of me, with all my manifold 
imperfections. 

This hard grind at Hanley, and the constant preach- 
ing to congregations mainly composed of the same 
people, was an invaluable schooling for me. I was 
getting ready for the wide-world field of evangel- 
istic work, not knowing, of course, that this was 
before me. As Moses was forty years in the desert of 
Midian, being trained for the work of leading forth 


Hanley Again 151 


the children of Israel, so was I, a poor gipsy boy, 
moulded and disciplined in Hanley during this time 
for my life’s work in the churches of England, Aus- 
tralia, and America. 

A few words about our church polity—if I may 
use this impressive phrase—in Hanley may fittingly 
come in here. When I began my work in the town 
the army had not enlisted more than twenty soldiers. 
Before my term as an army officer came to an abrupt 
end we had raised thenumber to between five hundred 
and six hundred. Our services in the Imperial Circus 
had not continued long before we had enrolled over 
a thousand members, all converted under my ministry. 
We had never any celebrations of communion in the 
circus, but at regular intervals we repaired in a large 
procession to one of the Nonconformist churches, and 
there took communion. I should say that not a few 
persons who were brought to God in the Imperial 
Circus left us immediately after this great event in 
their lives, and joined themselves to the churches 
with which they had been formerly, in some more or 
less loose way, associated. Saving that there was 
no dispensation of the holy communion (except dur- 
ing the later part of my stay), we were in all respects 
a regularly organized congregation, with Sunday- 
schools, classes, and the usual societies. I say this 
in order that no one may regard the Hanley work 
simply as a prolonged mission, although it is true 
that all my services were evangelical and most of 
them evangelistic. I was in the “regular ministry ” 
during these years at Hanley, if ever a man was. 


152 Gipsy Smith 


In my congregation were seven or eight members 
of the town council. The mayor, the magistrates, 
and all the members of the municipality were in sym- 
pathy with us and would do anything for us. The 
mission was a geat fact in the life of the town, a force 
that had to be reckoned with. I do not think I ex- 
aggerate when I say that my congregation held in 
the hollow of their hands the fate of any candidate 
for municipal office. I had a devoted, enthusiastic, 
and hard-working band of helpers, who relieved me 
of the great multitude of lesser duties which a church 
has to perform, and left me free for my platform work. 
My people were very liberal. We had a collection 
at each service. The British working-man is not 
at all afraid of the collection-plate. Several times, 
in moments of absent-mindedness, tension, or ex- 
citement, I have forgotten to announce the collection, 
but I was promptly reminded of my negligence from 
many quarters of the building. “The collection has 
not been made, sir!’’ was the cry of many voices. [ 
had taught the people that giving was as scriptural 
as praying or hymn-singing, and that the collection 
was part of the worship. 

In October, 1885, the autumnal sessions of the 
Congregational Union of England and Wales were 
held in Hanley. The free-church ministers of the 
town prepared an address of welcome, and arranged 
that a deputation of their number should address 
the Union. I had seen most of these ministers come 
into the town and had seen their predecessors depart. 
Although I represented by far the largest congrega- 


Hanley Again 153 


tion in Hanley, a congregation that would have made 
more than half a dozen of most free-church congre- 
gations in the town, I was not invited to join the depu- 
tation. When the secretary of my church inquired 
the reason why, he was answered, “Oh, he’s not an 
ordained minister.’’ That was to them reason enough 
for passing meover. I was hurt, but’! said noth- 
ing. 

However, one of these ministers, the Rev. Kilpin 
Higgs, a Congregationalist, was my very good friend, 
and had helped me from my first day in Hanley. I 
suspect that Mr. Higgs had spoken to some of the 
Congregational leaders about this slight to me, for 
after the deputation had addressed the Union and 
before Dr. Thomas, the chairman, replied, Dr. Han- 
nay rose and said: “ We cannot allow this interest- 
ing occasion to close without recognizing in Gipsy 
Smith a co-worker and a brother. I hear that he is 
in the church. Will he kindly come to the platform 
and address the assembly?’ I was sitting in the 
gallery, and so utterly taken aback by this gracious 
invitation that I cannot recall now whether I walked 
up the aisle to the platform or got round by the vestry. 
However, I soon found myself, happy but confused, 
standing among the leaders of the denomination 
and beside the deputation of Hanley free- church 
ministers. I told the delegates that I was not pre- 
pared to address them, but I ventured to say a few 
words which they graciously received with applause. 
They were acute enough to see that there was some 
little sore feeling between myself and the local free 


154 Gipsy Smith 


church deputation and that I had been slighted. 
After thanking the Union and the chairman for their 
recognition, their brotherly sympathy, and the chance 
to be seen and heard, I turned to the Hanley minis- 
ters who were standing beside me and said: 

‘‘ Brethren, I did feel hurt that you did not invite 
me to accompany you on this occasion. I know I 
have not been ordained, but I am your brother. I 
have not had the hand of priest or bishop or arch- 
bishop laid upon my head, but I have had the hands 
of your Lord placed upon me, and I have received 
His commission to preach the everlasting gospel. 
If you have been to the Cross, I am your brother. 
If you won’t recognize me, I will make you know I 
belong to you. I am one of your relations.”’ The 
delegates applauded loudly while I said these words, 
and I continued: ‘‘ You see what you have done. 
If you brethren had invited me to come with you I 
should have quietly appeared like one of yourselves, 
but since you ignored me, you have made me the 
hero of the day.” 

The Christian World published an interesting 
article of some length on this incident, from which 
I may be permitted, without offensive egotism, to 
extract a few sentences: ‘‘ Few incidents outside 
the serious proceedings of the Congregational Union 
meetings at Hanley excited deeper interest than the 
appearance on the platform of Gipsy Smith. Tull 
Dr. Hannay announced him, but few, it may be 
presumed, had ever heard of him. When the young 
man rose, presenting a dark but not swarthy counte- 


Hanley Again 155 


nance, there was nothing, save a flash of fire in his 
black eyes as he gazed round upon the assembly, 
that would have indicated that he came of a gipsy 
iribe, or that he was anything different from an 
ordinary youth of the middle class. He certainly 
had never stood up in such an assembly before. 
His manly tone, his handsome presence, his elo- 
quence, and his earnestness procured him a flattering 
reception from the assembly.”’ 

The working people’s meeting in connection with 
the sessions of the Union was held on the Thursday 
night in the Imperial Circus, and in this gathering I 
sang a solo. “‘ There can be little doubt,” says the 
writer I am quoting, “that if he did nothing else 
the multitudes would crowd to hear him. Accom- 
panied by a small harmonium, he poured forth, with 
great taste and skilful management of voice, which 
was subdued by the deepest emotion, the most ex- 
quisite strains of sacred song. The burden of it 
was an exhortation to pray, praise, watch, and work, 
the motive to which was urged in the refrain that 
followed each verse, ‘Eternity is drawing nigh.’ 
So far as we had the opportunity of judging, the 
young gipsy’s speech is as correct as his singing. 
We saw nothing coarse in the young man’s manners, 
and heard nothing vulgar in his speech. ‘He is 
doing more good than any other man in Hanley,’ 
said an enthusiastic Methodist couple with whom 
we fell in—of course, they meant as an evangelist 
among the masses. All the ministers we met with 
who had come into personal contact with him were 


156 Gipsy Smith 


as astonished at the amount of culture he displayed 
as at the simplicity and force of his address. The 
many ministers and other men of inteiligence who 
during last week were brought into personal contact 
with Gipsy Smith would one and all express for him 
the heartiest good-will, coupled with the sincerest 
hope that the grace given to him will be to him as 
a guard against fostering any feeling in his heart 
opposed to humility, and to the manifestation of 
any spirit such as the enemy loves to foster, that 
thereby he may mar a good work.” 

And now invitations to evangelistic work began 
to pour in upon me, mostly from Congregational 
ministers. These invitations I at first uniformly 
declined, but I was prevailed upon to go to London 
in December for a mission at St. James’ Bible Chris- 
tian Church, Forest Hill, of which the pastor was 
the Rev. Dr. Keen. I remember this mission very 
vividly, for it marked the beginning of a new era 
in my life. It opened my eyes to my true gifts and 
capacities, and showed me clearly that I was called 
to the work of a general evangelist, the work in which © 
for sixteen years I have been engaged and in which 
I fully expect I shall continue to the end. Dr. Keen 
wrote an account of the mission for the Bible Chris- 
tian Magazine, under the title, “A Tidal-wave of 
salvation at Forest Hill.” On the first Sunday 
evening the building was packed, more persons being 
present than when Charles H. Spurgeon preached 
at the opening of it. On the second Sunday evening 
scores of persons were outside the church doors 


Hanley Again 157 


three-quarters of an hour before the service was an- 
nounced to begin. When I appeared in the pulpit 
every inch of standing ground in the church was oc- 
cupied—vestries, pulpit stairs, chancel, lobby, and 
aisles. Hundreds of persons had to be turned away. 
Dr. Keen concluded his account with these words: 
“There has been no noise, confusion, or undue ex- 
citement throughout, but deep feeling, searching 
power, and gracious influence. The whole neigh- 
borhood has been stirred. Gipsy Smith is remark- 
able for simplicity of speech, pathetic and persuasive 
pleading, and great wisdom and tact in dealing with 
souls.. His readings of the Word, with occasional 
comments, are a prominent feature in his services, 
and done with ease and effect. In his addresses he is 
dramatic and pungent, while the solos he sings are 
striking sermons in choicest melody. He is a gipsy, 
pure and simple, but God has wonderfully gifted 
him with the noblest elements of an evangelist, and 
made him eminently mighty in the art of soul-win- 
ning.” 

The mission made a deep impression upon my 
own soul. I perceived clearly that my voice and 
words were for the multitude, that I had their ear, 
and that they listened to me gladly. I now took 
occasional missions, and wherever I was announced 
to preach the people flocked to hear me. I had great 
joy in preaching to the multitudes and some little 
power in dealing with them. The people were calling 
me, the churches were calling me, and, above all, God 
was calling me to this new field of work, in which, 


158 Gipsy Smith 


indeed, the harvest was plenteous and the laborers 
were few. Every day brought me more and more 
invitations to conduct missions, and the conviction 
that here was my life work took such a hold upon 
me that I could not get away from it. After much 
prayer and many struggles I resigned my position 
at the Imperial Circus, Hanley. My people felt the 
blow very acutely, so did my many friends in the 
town, and so did I. But, as I was still to have my 
home in Hanley and give all my spare time to the 
mission, the wrench was not so severe as it might 
have been. 

I cannot conclude this chapter on the dear old Han- 
ley days without the deepest emotions of love and 
gratitude to my troops of kind friends in that town, 
and without expressing my thanks to Almighty God 
for His tender guidance of me in those times of 
stress, difficulty,and crisis. Never was more love be- 
stowed upon mortal man than was showered on me 
by my friends in Hanley, and never have I worked 
among a people whom I loved more deeply and more 
devotedly. They were very good to me, and I did 
my best for them. No one knows as I know in my 
heart of hearts how poor the best was, but God was 
pleased to make it His own and to bring forth much 
fruit out of it to His praise and glory. Hanley and 
my Hanley friends have a peculiarly tender place 
in my heart. The very mention of the name makes 
my spirit rejoice with great joy in God my Saviour, 
who filleth the hungry with good things, while the 
rich—those who are conscious of gifts and graces 


Hanley Again 159 


and powers above the common—may be sent empty 
away. Only the resurrection morn shall reveal the 
great things that God wrought in that town by the 
hand of that unworthy servant of His who pens these 
poor, faltering lines of praise and love. 


CHAPTER XVII 
MY FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 


FROM 1886 to 1889 I was busy conducting missions 
among the churches. My experiences from the be- 
ginning convinced me that my decision to do the work 
of anevangelist was right. But during these three 
years I spent some months full of fear and dismal 
apprehension. In 1886 I was seized by a painful 
and distressing throat ailment, which rendered it 
impossible for me to preach or sing. Sir Morell Mac- 
kenzie, whom I consulted, said that the vocal cords 
had been unduly strained. I had been using my 
voice in public singing and speaking without a pro- 
longed rest, or any rest at all, for years, and the efforts 
now began to tell on me severely. For about nine 
months I was forced to abstain altogether from singing 
or preaching. I do not desire to spend such another 
nine months again. 

My readers, considering the busy full life I had 
led for years, will easily understand how sore and 
heavy a cross these passive nine months were. It 
was, besides, a severe test of faith. Our little stock 
of savings very quickly diminished, and we had 
started on our last £5 before I was able to take up 
my work again. Iwas recommended to consult the 
Rev. Mr. Sandilands, the Vicar of Brigstock, who 


My First Visit to America 161 


was a specialist on voice production, and on the 
diseases of the throat to which clergymen and 
other public speakers are subject. I spent a fort- 
night in the Brigstock Vicarage. Mr. Sandilands’ 
treatment was so successful that in a day or two I 
was reading the lessons in church for him. I be- 
lieve that the long rest had all but cured me of my 
ailment, but I was nervous and depressed on the sub- 
ject, and Mr. Sandilands did me the great service 
of establishing my confidence in my voice. Before 
I had left him I was using my voice for five hours 
every day,and I was soon at work again. Never did 
I feel more thankful. I was busy during the latter 
part of the year in the West of England. An influ- 
ential journal in that district made me the subject 
of a leading article, as amusing as it was flattering. 
My literary friends tell me that J must work in as 
many picturesque touches as I can, and that is my 
only excuse for making some extracts from this ar- 
ticle. An autobiographer cannot directly write about 
his personal appearance and personal peculiarities, 
nor is he as competent an authority on these sub- 
jects as an outsider may be. Yet these are the very 
things, I am told, which perhaps most interest 
readers. 

With these apologies, then, let me say that this 
leader-writer described me as “‘ elegant in form and 
manner, and as genuine and unsophisticated a son 
of nature as ever the mother of us all gave to the 
world.”” My eyes were described as “ rather large, 


darkly hazel, bright and liquid, wells of light and 
Il ; 


162 Gipsy Smith 


life,” and my countenance was labelled ‘‘ agreeable 
and winsome,” ‘“ The secret of his power,’ continued 
the writer, “‘is his simplicity, pathos, eclecticism, 
concentrativeness, and intense earnestness. Besides 
these, he is aided by freedom from all the meretri- 
cious airs and graces of pedantry which stick like 
excrescences to a studied and unnatural rhetoric. 
He is as simple as a child, as tender as a sister, and 
as mellow and merry as a nightingale.”’ The writer 
concluded by saying that I had the power of main- 
taining “that reverence and attention for the truth 
in an unconsecrated building crowded with good, 
bad, and indifferent characters which only a few ec- 
clesiastical authorities could maintain in a sacred 
edifice. And a man who in himself can so elevate 
the gipsy as to be deservedly envied by an archbishop, 
is the man for the masses.”’ I confess it had never 
occurred to me in my wildest and most sanguine 
dreams that I might be the envy of an arch- 
bishop! 

The story of my first visit to America begins in 
this wise. In 1886 I made the acquaintance of Mr. 
B. F. Byrom, of Saddleworth, near Oldham, a cotton 
spinner and woollen manufacturer. Mr. Byrom was 
residing in Torquay for the benefit of his health 
while I was conducting a mission there, and that is 
how we came to meet. A close friendship was soon 
formed between us, a friendship to which I owe a 
great deal more than I can ever tell. No man has 
been more fortunate than I in the number and the 
stanchness of his friends. Mr. Byrom took a holi- 





AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-SIX. 


Thee 5 


é 





My First Visit to America 163 


day in Palestine and Egypt in the early months of 
1887, and while on his travels became intimate with 

two American Congregational ministers and Dr. 
~R. S. Macphail, the well-known Presbyterian min- 
ister of Liverpool. He spoke to them about his friend, 
the gipsy evangelist, and told them all that he knew 
about my life and my work. They were deeply in- 
terested, and the American ministers expressed a 
strong desire that I should undertake an evangel- 
istic tour in their country. Mr. Byrom, on his own 
responsibility, gave some sort of pledge or promise 
that at some future time I should. When he came 
home to England he told me he felt I ought to go; but 
I was finding abundant and fruitful employment for 
all my energies in England, and I did not feel that 
I was called to go to America. In short, I shrank 
back altogether from the enterprise. In the mean- 
time, letters were passing between the two American 
ministers, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Kemp, and Mr. By- 
rom. It was Mr. Byrom’s firm faith that I should 
not only be made a means of blessing to the American 
churches, but also that the visit would be to me a 
further education and would supply me with help, 
material, and suggestion for my own work in the old 
country. I could hold out no longer, and in the au- 
tumn of 1888 I decided to go to America. Mr. By- 
rom generously guaranteed me against loss. 

But at the last moment obstacles rose up in front 
of me, like great rocks out of the ocean. When all 
the preparations had been made and my passage 
taken, word came that Mr. Kemp had suddenly 


164 Gipsy Smith 


passed away and that Mr. Morgan found some local 
difficulties which prevented him carrying out his pro- 
posals on my behalf just then. And so the way seemed 
blocked by obstacles which we had not anticipated. 
But having once made up my mind to go, I was re- 
solved that nothing should hinder me. I had still 
time to secure letters of commendation and intro- 
duction from some of the leading Nonconformist 
ministers and other persons who knew me and my 
work. I felt sure that these would procure me a 
good starting opportunity on the other side. 

Among those who supplied me with letters were 
the Rev. Charles Garrett, Rev. D. Burford Hooke, 
Rev. S. F. Collier, Rev. Andrew Mearns, Dr. Henry 
J. Pope, Mr. William Woodall, M.P., the Mayor of 
Hanley (Mr. Henry Palmer), the Hanley Imperial 
Mission Committee, Dr. Charles A. Berry, Rev. T. 
Kilpin Higgs, M.A., Dr. Keen, and Mr. Thomas W. 
Harrison, Secretary of the Staffordshire Congre- 
gational Union. The words that touched my heart 
most were those of my Hanley Committee. “We 
cannot,” said the signatories, “allow you to leave 
for America without expressing our deep gratitude 
for the noble work you have done among us dur- 
ing the last seven years. You came a stranger but 
soon worked your way into the hearts of the people, 
and hundreds of the worst characters in the town 
were converted to God. Hundreds of once wretched 
but now happy homes thank God that Gipsy Smith 
was ever sent to our town. The work has spread, 
the churches have been quickened, and at the present 


My First Visit to America 165 


time, in most of the towns and villages of the dis- 
trict, successful mission work is carried on.”’ 

I set sail from Liverpool on board the Umbria on 
the 19th of January, 1889. <A gipsy uncle—a brother 
of my mother—who, having no children of his own, 
was very fond of me, travelled a hundred miles that 
morning from his wagon to see me off. I took him, 
attired in his gipsy costume, on board the vessel, 
and at once all eyes were on him. When the sim- 
ple man felt the movement of the vessel and saw the 
water, his eyes filled with tears, and turning to my 
wife he said, “ Annie, my dear, I shall never see him 
again.”’ He had never been on a ship before—he 
may, indeed, never have seen one—and he feared 
that it could not live in the great mighty ocean. The 
thought in his mind was not that he might die before 
I came back, but that I should probably be drowned. 
He asked me, too, if I thought I should have enough 
to eat on the way, and I managed to assure him on 
that point. Presently I took farewell of him (the 
tears rolling down his cheeks), my wife, my sister 
and her husband, Mr. Byrom and several other friends. 
I felt as we slowly sailed away that I was venturing 
out on a great unknown, but though my confidence 
in myself was poor and weak enough, I was very 
sure of God. 

The voyage was without incident. I am a poor 
sailor, and during the passage across the Atlantic I 
was deeply moved! I landed in New York on a mis- 
erably wet Sunday morning, a perfect stranger, not 
knowing, to the best of my belief, a single soul on 


166 Gipsy Smith 


the whole vast continent. I took up my quarters 
at the Astor House—Mr. Byrom had advised me to 
go to a good hotel—and sat down to think what I 
should do. I cannot say I was feeling at all happy 
or confident, but I girded up the loins of my mind 
and plucked up some little courage. 

On Monday morning I presented myself at the 
New York Methodist Episcopal Ministers’ Meeting, 
a gathering which is held on that day every week. 
I had a letter of introduction to the President, Dr. 
Strowbridge, from the Rev. Charles Garrett. I was 
received most cordially by the assembled brethren, 
who all rose to signify their welcome. On Wednes- 
day morning I went to see Dr. James Buckley, the 
editor of the Christian Advocate. Dr. Buckley was 
absent, but Dr. Clark was acting as editor for the 
time. I explained to him who I was, what was my 
object in coming to America, and asked him to look 
at my letters of introduction. ' He read a few of them 
and inquired whether I was ready to begin work at 
once. I replied that I was ready, but that I had no 
desire to start right away because I thought a rest 
would do me good and give me time to look round. 
“Well,’”’ said Dr. Clark, “Dr. Prince, of Brooklyn, 
was asking me the other day if I knew of a man who 
could help him in some special services.’’ Dr. Prince 
was the pastor of Nostrand Avenue Methodist Epis- 
copal Church, the second largest in Brooklyn, a 
brilliant scholar and preacher. Dr. Clark offered 
to send me with a note to Dr. Prince. I was greatly 
pleased and delighted by the editor’s kindness, be- 


My First Visit to America 167 


cause Dr. Clark was known to have very little sym- 
pathy with the ordinary professional evangelist. 
I flattered myself that he had taken to me. The 
note to Dr. Prince ran thus: “The bearer of this note 
is Gipsy Smith, an evangelist from England. His 
letters are all that can be desired. You were asking 
me about a man to help you in your church. If I 
were in need of a man I would engage him on the 
strength of his papers.”’ Dr. Clark was continuously 
kind and fatherly to me during this American cam- 
paign. His little comments on my work in the Chris- 
tian Advocate helped me as much as any of the press 
notices I received in America. 

When I went to see Dr. Prince in his handsome 
parsonage, adjoining his church, the door was opened 
by Mrs. Prince. The busy doctor was in his study, 
and his wife—faithful guardian of his time and en- 
ergies—put me through a set of questions before I 
obtained admission. When at last I was ushered 
into the presence of Dr. Prince, I felt somewhat awed 
and hushed. I handed him the note from Dr. Clark. 
He put on his gold pince-nez and, after reading the 
note with a rather severe expression of countenance, 
he took them off, and looking me hard and full in 
the face, said in a decisive voice: 

“ Well, brother, I guess I don’t want you.” 

I returned his gaze calmly, and replied, ‘‘ Well, 
doctor, I think you do.”’ 

He smiled, pleased rather than offended at my 
** cheek,’’? and I went on. ‘‘I am no adventurer. I 
ask you to read these before I leave you,’’ handing 


168 Gipsy Smith 


him my letters of introduction. Finally he prom- 
ised to talk to some of his official brethren that night 
about the matter at the close of a service which was 
to be held. 

That service was attended by from two to three 
hundred people (of whom I was one), gathered in 
the lecture-hall. I was told that this was the third 
week of nightly prayer-meetings, that a great spirit 
of supplication had taken possession of the Church, 
and that neither the pastor nor the officials felt that 
they dare close the meetings. They were praying 
for a revival. The service that night was most ear- 
nest, solemn,andimpressive. Dr. Prince camein tow- 
ards the close of the meeting and spied me among 
the congregation. Without speaking to me orgiv- 
ing me any warning he said: ‘Friends, we have a 
real live gipsy in the house to-night.’”? The peopie 
at once looked round in search of this presumably 
desperate character, and Dr. Prince continued: “ But 
he is a converted gipsy. I will ask him to talk to 
you.” I addressed the people very briefly, just long 
enough to know that they were thoroughly inter- 
ested and anxious for me to go on. While they 
were bowing their heads for the benediction I slipped 
out. They sought for me, but I could not be found. 

While at breakfast the following morning the col- 
ored waiter informed me that Dr. Prince and two 
gentlemen desired to speak to me. They told me 
they wanted my help, and I must go forthwith and 
stay with Dr. Prince in the parsonage, for they be- 
lieved that God had sent me across the seas specially 


My First Visit to America 169 


for their Church. And I believe with all my heart 
that it was so. The prayer-meetings had started 
before I left England, and by supplication and con- 
secration the people had been getting ready for my 
coming. They did not know it, and I did not know 
it. But God, who brought us together, did. This 
interview took place on Thursday morning, and it 
was arranged that I should begin on the Sunday. 
An announcement to that effect was put in the pa- 
pers, including also a few extracts from my letters 
of introduction. The letter which helped me most 
was that from the late Dr. Charles A. Berry, for he 
had only recently refused the call to succeed Henry 
Ward Beecher at Brooklyn. These short news- 
paper notices were all the advertisement that was 
employed. 

Mr. Ira D. Sankey, of never-dying Moody and 
Sankey fame, took me for a long drive on the Sat- 
urday before my first service. I asked him if he re- 
membered that during the campaign at Burdett 
Road, Bow, he was driven out one day to a gipsy 
encampment in Epping Forest. 

“Ves, I remember it very well, and I remember 
meeting the converted gipsy brothers who were do- 
ing a good evangelistic work up and down your 
country.” 

“One of these brothers, Cornelius Smith, is my 
father, and he is still doing the same work.” 

Mr. Sankey was pleased to hear this. 

I further asked him: ‘‘Do you remember that 
some little gipsy boys stood by the wheel of the trap 


170 Gipsy Smith 


in which you were driving, and that, leaning over, 
you put your hand on the head of one of them and 
said, ‘‘‘ The Lord make a preacher of you, my boy ’?” 

“Ves, I remember that, too.” | 

“‘T am that boy.” 

Mr. Sankey’s joy knew no bounds. 

A little incident: illustrating the famous singer’s 
true kindness and solicitude on my behalf took 
place on this same drive. In those days I wore a 
frock-coat of unimpeachable cut, I hope, and a white 
shirt and front of unblemished purity and snowy 
whiteness, I know, but no tie. The reason of this 
omission I cannot tell. I suppose I felt that I was 
dressed enough. Said Mr. Sankey to me all at 
once: 

‘Brother Smith, why do you not wear a white 
tie?’”’ 

“T really do not know.” 

“Well, Brother Smith,’ said Mr. Sankey, “‘ I guess 
you would do well to buy some to-night, and wear 
one to-morrow.” | 

Mr. Sankey was very anxious that my first im- 
pression upon the people should be as favorable as 
possible, and even a white tie would count for some- 
thing. | 

The mission was successful from the beginning. 
The Nostrand Avenue Church, which seated fifteen 
hundred people, was crowded at the first service 
and at every service during the three weeks. Be- 
tween four hundred and five hundred people pro- 
fessed to have found the Lord. The Methodist Epis- 


My First Visit to America 171 


copal churches do not use the inquiry-room. The 
penitents are invited to come forward to the com- 
munion rail and there settle the great transaction. 
My way was made in America. I next proceeded 
to the Central Methodist Episcopal Church, Sev- 
enth Avenue, New York, the church of which Gen- 
eral Grant was a member while he lived, and which 
is now the centre of the New York Methodist For- 
ward Movement over which the Rev. Dr. Cadman 
presided for so many years. ‘The same scenes were 
repeated here. Then I went to Trenton, New Jer- 
sey, where J had the exquisite happiness of meet- 
ing a great many persons from the Potteries who 
had settled there, who knew me well, and some of 
whom had been among my personal friends. 

I saw a congregation of colored people for the first 
time in Philadelphia. It was a communion ser- 
vice, and about eight hundred of my ebony brethren 
were present. As far as I could observe I was the 
only other-colored person in the audience. The 
opening prayer of the dear old pastor contained 
many passages characteristic, I believe, of his class; 
“O Lord, thou knowest dat this be a well-dressed 
congregation; help ’em to remember dat when de 
offerings ob de Lord are made. O Lord, bless de 
official bredren. Sometimes at their official meetin’s 
they fall out and they quarrel. And, Lord, before 
they take these emblems dis afternoon, Lord, they 
want reconverting. Come down and do it, Lord.” 
At this stage, one big black brother, not one of the 
official bredren, cried out in a loud and zealous voice: 


172 Gipsy Smith 


“Amen, amen! Press hard on dat point, bruder; 
press hard dere!’ And the pastor went on: “ Lord, 
go up into the choir and convert the organist!’’ The 
organist, who was sitting just behind me, sniffed 
and said, “Umph!’’ It was whispered into my 
ears that he was the pastor’s son-in-law. No one 
took offence at these very direct petitions, not even 
the official brethren, or the choir, or the organist. 
They all heartily responded “Amen.” They loved 
and trusted their old pastor, and did not think less 
of him for the faithfulness of his dealings with them. 

I was greatly delighted and impressed by the 
singing of the congregation. I heard the Fisk Ju- 
bilee Singers, who came to this country and en- 
raptured us all, but this negro congregation excelled 
even that famous band in the sweetness and grand- 
eur of their performance. I shall never forget how 
they sang the hymn, “Swing low, sweet chariot, 
coming for to carry me home.’’ It seemed to me at 
the moment as if the roof of the church must open 
and the chariot descend into our midst, the singing 
was so grand and yet so artless—as natural as a 
dewdrop. I shall carry the memory of that service 
with me into eternity. 

some of my most interesting experiences during 
this trip befell me in Cincinnati. One little incident, 
trifling in itself—one of those trifling things which 
one does not soon forget—occurred at the house 
where I was a guest. On the morning after my 
arrival, when I came down-stairs, I found a little 
daughter of the house lying in a hammock swung 


My First Visit to America 173 


in the hall, daintily dressed and waiting to receive 
me. Her father and mother had talked about me to 
her, and she knew I was coming. I talked as sweet- 
ly as I could to the little maiden. I said, “ What a 
nice girl you are!”’ She answered nothing. Then I 
said, “ What nice hands you have! what beautiful 
hair, what lovely eyes!’’ Still she did not. speak. 
I could not make it out. I knew she was very in- 
telligent, because I could see the brightness of her 
spirit in her eyes. I tried once again. “Oh, my,” 
I said, “what a nice frock you have! what a lovely 
dress!’ Still not a sound. At last, looking at me 
with impatience, not unmingled with disgust, she 
pushed her little feet prominently out of the ham- 
mock and said, “ Ain’t you stuck on my new slip- 
pers?” This was the compliment she was waiting 
for. 

During my stay in Cincinnati I visited a gipsy 
encampment close at hand, the Cumminsville Col- 
ony. An account of this visit given in a local pa- 
per was so interesting that I reproduce it:— 


A ROMANY RYE. 


Gipsy Smith, the Evangelist, in the City. A Romantic 
Scene at the Cummunsville Colony, 


*‘ There was a rare and decidedly romantic scene enacted 
at the gipsy encampment at Cumminsville yesterday after- 
noon. Shortly before five o’clock a dashing team of bays, 
with bang-tails, landed upon the street leading into the 
centre of the Romany village, with much life. They drew 


174 Gipsy Smith 


behind them a handsome landau occupied by four gentle. 
men, and as they came to a halt in front of one of the several 
tents of this nomadic race there was a shout in the weird 
language of the gipsies. Instantly there was a warm 
note of recognition from several men with the brown-hued 
countenance peculiar to that race standing near by, and a 
number of female heads, bedecked with gay colors, a weak- 
ness of the Romany woman, appeared from the folds of the 
canvas home. 

“A neatly-dressed gentleman, with dark complexion 
and raven-black hair, leaped from the carriage, hat in 
hand, and for a few minutes the air was full of the nattiest 
kind of conversation in that strange tongue which men 
have for years tried to collect, as he shook hands most 
enthusiastically with those about him. : 

“The new arrival was Gipsy Smith, the famous British 
evangelist, who twelve years ago gave up the wandering 
life of his family and turned his attention to preaching the 
Gospel in his native land, and is now conducting a revival 
at the Trinity M. E. Church. 

“There was a striking contrast between this civilized 
Romany Rye and the untamed ones that ‘soon gathered 
around him. He was attired in a three-button cutaway 
black coat and black and gray-striped pantaloons, and a 
white tie peeped out from under a turned-down collar. Sur- 
rounding him was a motley gathering of men, women, and 
children. All gazed upon him with great curiosity, but he 
soon relieved them, and each eagerly tried to talk with him. 
The young men wore rather shabby attire, with the never- 
absent colored handkerchief about their necks. They 
had but little to say, but one middle-aged, stoutly-built 
man, as fine a type of the gipsy as mortal man ever looked 
upon, was unusually friendly. 

***T belong to the Smiths,’ said the evangelist. 


My First Visit to America 175 


** * What, from England?’ 

““ Yes, my father was Cornelius Smith’; and he rattled 
off a list of the James Smiths that completely threw in the 
shade the long line of the same noted family in this country. 

“* Well! welll’ replied the big fellow, ‘I am a Lovell, 
and my mother was related to the Smiths. Here is my 
wife,’ as he pointed to a matronly-looking female, enveloped. 
in a faded calico dress, with a white cloth about her head. 
She took great interest in the stranger, and was soon ques- 
tioning him about various members of her family. 

““* We have been in this country twenty-three years, 
but we hear continually from the old ’uns. Times among 
us over there wasn’t very good. My poor mother stood it 
nearly three years in this country, when she died,’ said he 
of the Lovells. 

“ Peeping into the tent, the evangelist espied a dark 
hued woman sitting tailor-fashion upon the ground. She 
was a perfect specimen of the gipsy fortune-teller of romance. 
Her ears were ornamented with lengthy pendants of gold, 
to all appearance; long braids of rich black hair hung 
over her shoulders. Her head was covered with a wide 
hat with a brilliant red lining, and in her lap was a young 
baby with a complexion the richness of which was in strik- 
ing contrast to the dark olive hue of the mother. 

“Laughing loudly, Smith said in Romany tongue, 
‘What a thorough Gentile baby!’ | 

“The mother smiled, and a sturdy man who stood near 
py did not relish the utterance a bit. He was the father, 
and was marked in not having the least resemblance to the 
race, 

“Smith explained that it was the title always given a 
child born of the gipsy wife of a husband not a Romany. 

** Lovell and his wife were the only ones in the colony 
who had ever been abroad, and gradually the talk was 


176 Gipsy Smith 


confined to them. The others, naturally retiring gradually 
dropped out of sight and disappeared either into the shambly 
tents or walked away to Cumminsville. The little children 
—and there were two-score of them—several of whom were 
perfect beauties, with their dark features and curly hair, 
returned to their play, and soon had forgotten the distin: 
guished caller. 

‘“‘ “ Where are all your horses?’ was asked of Lovell. 

“* “Oh, the camp is lighter this week than it has been for a 
long time. Most of our folks are out on the road, and many 
of our boys and girls will not be back for an hour,’ was the 
reply. 

‘“* Won’t you come down and take a bite with us?’ was 
asked of the evangelist; and he looked anxiously at the 
iron crane stuck in the greund under which was the smoul- 
dering embers of a fire. 

** “Oh, yes.’ 

“* * Make it Sunday?’ 

““*T would like to, but I have three meetings that day.’ 

“© Allright ; we will try and get some of the boys to come 
down and hear you.’ 

«« Say, Lovell, did you ever hear the people say we dyed 
our faces?” continued the evangelist. 

“Oh vess 

““* What foolish talk! I can account for the dark com- 
plexion. It is due to the long-continued contact with the 
sun and elements. The poor gipsy is a much-maligned 
individual.’ 

“ The trio rehearsed many interesting matters about old 
forests, celebrated Romany retreats in England, and noted 
leaders who had passed to their long rest, and after an 
affectionate farewell the evangelist got intothe carriage, in 
which were Dr. Henderson, of Trinity, and T. A. Snider, 
of Clifton, and was driven away. 


My First Visit to America 177 


“He was highly delighted with the visit, and said that 
such meetings gave him new zeal in his work. Referring 
to the baby, he said: ‘ A birth in camp is made the occasion 
of great festivities. The new arrival is baptized, a minister 
is always summoned, and the whole ends with a fine meal.’ 
Just then two gaudily attired gipsy girls passed on their 
way to the camp. 

““* Where have they been?’ 

*** Out fortune-telling ; and I want to tell you a funny 
part of the talk I had with the women at the camp. I was 
explaining to Lovell’s wife about the death of my mother, 
and said the only thing that she regretted was about her 
telling fortunes, which were all false. It worried her. 

“* Ves, that is so; they are all lies,’ replied she. ‘ But 
then,’ continued Smith, ‘ the women will do it, the money 
temptation being too great for them.’ 

‘“* What did Lovell mean by saying that business was 
bad abroad?’ 

““* Oh, you see, the British government is very severe 
with our women in the matter of fortune-telling, and fines 
and imprisons them. This has driven hundreds of them 
to this country, and there are not as many families over 
there as of old.’ ” 


During this first tour in America I visited Ger- 
mantown, where Joseph Bonaparte, brother of 
Napoleon, lived in exile and where Tom Paine 
wrote The Age of Reason. At this time, Tom Paine’s 
house was a college for young ladies, and every 
morning, in the room which the infidel writer used 
for study a meeting for prayer and study of the 
Bible was held. That is how Christianity revenged 
itself on Tom Paine in Germantown, During this 


178 Gipsy Smith 


same visit, too, I was shown though Girard College, 
Philadelphia, a college for the up-bringing and edu- 
cation of one thousand five hundred boys. The will 
of the founder stipulated that no minister of the 
Gospel should enter it, but that the highest code of 
morals should be taught. The trustees decided that 
the highest code of morals was taught in the Bible. 
Hence, every day these boys read the sacred scrip- 
tures and engage in prayer. I was shown over the 
whole building, but in accordance with the trust 
deeds, I was not permitted to address the boys. 

The American people treated me in a very kind 
way, and from the time of this first visit I have al- 
ways cherished the warmest feelings towards them. 
I was much struck too by the great regard that is 
paid to prayer-meeting night and the week-night 
services. 

Americans have beautiful churches, beautifully 
furnished. ‘The floors are laid with Brussels car- 
pets—no shabby strips of cocoanut matting in the 
aisles of American churches. The school-rooms, 
church-parlors, and vestries are all in keeping in this 
respect with the church. I once asked a lady and 
her husband how it was that they spent so much 
money on their churches in making them luxurious. 
They replied: “We make our homes beautiful; why 
should we not make the house of God beautiful?” 
The equipment of their Sunday-schools is much 
superior to that of ours. The children are studied 
in every possible way. The schools are often di- 
vided into many class-rooms, and the children are 


My First Visit to America 179 


given seats in which they can listen in comfort to 
what their teacher has to say. The Americans, in 
short, have caught the spirit of the age. They be- 
lieve in adaptation, and they believe that the Church 
ought to have the best of everything. We are now 
learning the same lesson in this country. We are 
giving our best men, our finest buildings, and our 
sweetest music for mission-work in the great centres 
of population, and the results are justifying these 
methods. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
MANCHESTER TO AMERICA “RETURN” 


My tour in America had been somewhat curtailed 
by an affection of the eyes, the result of passing 
from a heated room—and they do stew you in their 
rooms in America!—to a cold outside atmosphere. 
My Hanley friends gave me a most cordial welcome 
home again. My readers will not forget that dur- 
ing all this time I was the honorary head of the 
Imperial Mission, Hanley. My people paraded the 
town with a brass band, braying out jubilantly on 
account of my return, and in the evening welcomed 
me home. The Sunday scholars gave me a hand- 
some Bible. While in America I had the pastorates 
of two fine churches offered to me. But I declined 
them, and when I got back among my dear people 
at Hanley I felt so glad I had declined. 

Before my American trip, I had conducted a few 
missions in connection with the great work of the 
Rev. S. F. Collier in Manchester. I found when I 
returned home that Mr. Collier’s committee had 
taken over the Free Trade Hall for a great Sunday 
night service. I was invited to work with Mr. Col- 
lier for a year. I accepted the call, and removed 
my home from Hanley to Manchester. 

During ten days’ special services that I conducted 

180 


Manchester to America “Return” 181 


at the Central Hall we had forty meetings, four a 
day—a meeting for business men; an afternoon 
Bible-reading, conducted by the Rev. F. B. Meyer, 
B.A., Rev. G. Campbell Morgan, or other eminent 
minister; an eight-o’clock service, and a midnight 
service conducted by Mr. Collier. This midnight 
congregation was the most wonderful assembly of 
people I ever saw. At ten o’clock two hundred and 
fifty workers, accompanied by two brass bands, pro- 
ceeded from the Central Hall to visit every beer- 
shop in that neighborhood of Manchester, every 
music-hall, and every theatre. At the doors of these 
places bills were distributed announcing the mid- 
night service, and as many persons as possible were 
given a personal invitation to attend. The congre- 
gation, numbering from three hundred to six hun- 
dred people, consisted of bookmakers, gamblers, 
drunkards, harlots, and thieves. Many of them had 
been found walking the streets after the beer-shops 
and theatres were closed. Not a few were drunk, 
many half-drunk. I do not know of anybody 
except Mr. Collier who could have managed such 
a congregation. His method was to give them a 
lantern lecture; to seize their attention by means 
of the pictures, and get in the Gospel when he 
could. It was pathetic to observe how a favorite 
hymn thrown on the screen—say, “When I survey 
the wondrous Cross”—would move these hardened 
drunkards and lost men and women to tears. So 
overcome were some of them that they had to be 
carried out. The service was so impressive that it 


182 Gipsy Smith 


actually sobered not a few of them, at least to the 
extent of making them understand what was being 
said. During that mission six hundred persons 
passed through the inquiry-room. 

The year was one of active, happy and fruitful 
success. Mr. Collier was my wise and sympathetic 
chief. Often we were on the platform together. 
I owe much to his encouragement and genial 
Christian brotherliness. 

Before I became connected with the Manchester 
Mission I had made an engagement with friends on 
the other side of the Atlantic that I would soon visit 
them again, and accordingly in August, 1891, I set 
sail on board the Etruria for my second trip to the 
great continent. 

I went straight to the camp meetings at Ocean 
Grove, which are held from August 21st to 31st, 
inclusive. The town was founded by a few Metho- 
dist preachers who years ago went there for their 
holidays and camped in the woods. Their idea of 
making Ocean Grove a great camp-meeting ground 
became so popular that now it is the largest camp- 
meeting place in the world. In the auditorium, 
which seats nearly ten thousand people, three gath- 
erings are held each day during the camp-meetings. 
Just across the road is a building called Ocean 
Grove Temple, seated for about 2,000 people, and 
here two meetings for young people are held daily. 
The young people are of all ages, from thirteen or 
fourteen up to anywhere under ninety! In the 
height of the camp season, the hotels, cottages, and 


Manchester to America “Return” 183 


tents of the town are crowded with a population of 
from seventy thousand to eighty thousand people, 
from all parts of America. I have seen sometimes 
as many as two hundred and fifty ministers on the 
platform. 

In 1891, the president of the meetings was the 
Rev. Dr. Stokes, whom I had met once before and 
who had shown me much kindness. He introduced 
me to many of the ministers present whom I did 
not know, explaining who I was and why I had 
come to the States. In this way, before I left Ocean 
Grove I had practically completed the programme 
of my autumn and winter’s work. I had made a 
good impression on the ministers by two addresses 
I had given at the Young People’s Meetings. 

My first mission was in Old Jane Street Metho- 
dist Episcopal Church, New York, of which the 
Rev. Stephen Merritt was the pastor. Mr. Merritt 
was a truly wonderful man. He carried on his 
pastorate and the business of an undertaker at the 
same time. His work in the latter capacity was 
very extensive. He stood high in the trade, and to 
him had been intrusted the obsequies of General 
Grant. While still a layman, he preached with so 
much success that the bishop of the diocese gave 
him the charge of Old Jane Street. When I was 
in New York, Mr. Merritt was one of the best- 
known men in that city. He had turned the old 
church into what was described as a tremendous 
converting furnace. My mission there was held 
during the month of September, a very hot month 


184 Gipsy Smith 


in New York, and yet the crowds came and hun- 
dreds were turned into the Lord. 

One Sunday evening, while the people were gath- 
ering, a couple came into the vestry to the pastor 
and asked him to marry them. When the ceremony 
was over, the bridegroom said to the minister, “You 
seem to have a large congregation?’ “Yes, we 
have the evangelist Gipsy Smith from England here 
taking a mission for us.’ “Oh, we have heard of 
him, and I should like to hear him.” The upshot 
was that the bride and bridegroom, having no 
friends with them, decided to stay for the service. 
The marriage ceremony took place at 7.30, and 
within two hours the newly married couple knelt 
with a number of others at the communion-rail, and 
gave themselves to Jesus Christ. And so they com- 
menced their new life under the very best of all 
bonds. 

At Washington I attended the G£cumenical Con- 
ference, and for the sake of the venerable William 
Arthur, who introduced me, and who was the most 
revered man in the conference, I was allowed to sit 
in the body of the hall, was treated as an honored 
guest, and was invited to a great reception at the 
Arlington House. That night I was introduced to 
Frederick Douglass, the great negro orator, who, in 
that assembly, seemed to tower above everybody 
else. I told Mr. Douglass that I had read the story 
of his life and was charmed by it. He was 
greatly pleased, congratulated me on my success as 
an evangelist, and wished me God-speed. 





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Manchester to America “Return” 185 


The greatest mission I conducted in New York 
was at Calvary Methodist Episcopal Church, Har- 
lem, of which the late James Roscoe Day, D.D., 
was then pastor. Dr. Day afterwards became 
Chancellor of Syracuse University. The church 
was seated for two thousand three hundred people. 
All the seats were let, and Dr. Day was accustomed 
to preach to crowded congregations every Sunday. 
The pastor and his officers had thoroughly prepared 
my way, and the members of the church seemed to 
rally round me almost toa man. Night after night 
for a whole month the building was crowded. 
There were many conversions, including whole 
families. Little children and old men knelt side by 
side seeking the same Saviour. Sunday scholars for 
whom their teachers and parents had sent up many 
prayers to heaven were brought to the saving knowl- 
edge of the truth, and were led to confess their 
Lord. This month passed away all too quickly. I 
would gladly have prolonged the mission, but I had 
made other engagements that I was bound to 
fulfil. 

My work in New York was not at first looked 
upon with friendly eyes by all the Methodist Epis- 
copal ministers of the city. During my mission in 
the Harlem church I attended the usual Monday 
meeting of the New York Methodist ministers in 
company with Dr. Day. Dr. Day told his brethren 
something of the revival at his church, saying that 
it was a revival on old-fashioned Methodist lines. 
Whereupon a certain Dr. Hamilton rose and said: 


186 Gipsy Smith 


“T do not believe in evangelists. I have been in the 
ministry many years, and I have never had an evan- 
gelist in my church, and I never shall have. When 
the wind blows the dust blows, and when the wind 
settles the dust settles. I believe in hand-picked 
fruit, in conversions which result from the ordinary 
work of the ministry. But I am glad to see Gipsy 
Smith present this morning, and I shall be glad to 
hear him.” The brethren called out loudly for 
“Gipsy Smith! Gipsy Smith!’ I had no desire to 
address the ministers, and unless called upon by 
the president I had no right to do so, but the cries 
for me were persistent, and I was invited to have 
my say. I began: “Mr. Chairman, gentlemen, and 
brethren,—If I were at home in England, among 
my brethren and the ministers who know me, who 
have watched me, and who know my manner of 
work, I would venture to reply to Dr. Hamilton. 
But as I am a stranger in a strange land, and your 
guest, I prefer to be silent. If I am only a gipsy 
boy, I know what belongs to good breeding.”’ Then 
I sat down. 

The brethren present shouted in American fash- 
ion, ‘Good, Brother Smith! Good, good, good!” 
and urged me to goon. “Very well,” I said, “very 
well, if you will hear me, you shall. It may be a 
very smart thing to say that when the wind blows 
the dust blows, and when the wind settles the dust 
settles, but it is not a Christ-like thing to say of a 
brother and his work,” and, turning to Dr. Hamil- 
ton, “if God has given to the church evangelists it is 


Manchester to America “Return” 187 


because you need them. What God has called clean, 
do not you call common.” There was a cry of, 
“Good, good, that’s so, Brother Smith!’ “Well,” 
I added, ‘“‘you say you believe in hand-picked fruit; 
so do I. It fetches the highest price in the market; 
but what are you to do when the fruit is too high for 
you to reach it, and you have no ladder? Every- 
body knows, too, that some of the best fruit is on the 
top of the tree. Are you going to lose that fruit 
because you are not tall enough or strong enough 
to getit? J won’t! I will ask the first godly brother 
who comes along to help me to shake that tree, and 
we will get the fruit though we bruise it in the get- 
ting. I would rather not have said this. I do not 
believe in defending myself, or setting myself 
against my brethren in the ministry. I have tried 
always to be the pastor’s help, and I never allow 
myself in public or in private to say one disparaging 
word of my brethren. It hurts and grieves me when 
I hear a pastor speaking disdainfully of the work of 
the evangelist, remembering as I do that God has 
given to the church some apostles, some prophets, 
some evangelists, as well as pastors and teachers.” 
It was plain that the ministers were with me and 
not with Dr. Hamilton. On the following Sunday 
afternoon Dr. Hamilton was a member of my con- 
gregation. In due course we both appeared together 
at the ministers’ meeting on Monday. He told me 
that he had greatly profited by my sermon of the 
day before, and said he liked it so much that were 
he going to preach from the same text, he would 


1§8 Gipsy Smith 


incorporate some of my sermon into his own dis- 
course. 

To me the most memorable incident of my two 
weeks’ mission at Old Bedford Street, New York, 
was the conversion of a Roman Catholic priest. As 
I was speaking one night to the penitents at the 
communion-rail a man with a handsome, clean- 
shaven face looked up to me through the tears that 
were streaming down his face, and said, “Do you 
know who Iam,” I said, “No, sir.””’ He answered, 
“T am a Roman Catholic priest. My church has 
failed to give me what I am hungry for.” My 
theme that night had been “Jesus, the only Cure.” 
The priest said to me, “I am seeking the Cure, the 
only Cure!’ I remembered that I had seen in the 
audience the Rev. Father O’Connor, an ex-priest, 
well known in New York for his work among 
Catholics. I called him to my help, feeling that he 
would be better able to deal with this man than I 
could, and when I told him what I had just heard at 
the communion-rail, he said: “Yes, I know all about 
it. I brought him here.” The priest had been igno- 
rant of the plan of salvation, but there and then, 
renouncing his church and his old religion, he gave 
himself to Jesus Christ. The next day I dined with 
him at the Rev. Father O’Connor’s. I discovered 
that the priest, having become dissatisfied with his 
church and his profession, had gone to Father 
O’Connor and sought his aid. Father O’Connor 
said to him, “Come and live with me, and see how 
my wife and children live, and what simple faith in 


Manchester to America “Return” 189 


Christ has done for us.” The priest went to stay 
at Father O’Connor’s house, and at his suggestion 
came to my meeting. He sent in his resignation 
to the bishop, and soon was preaching Christ as the 
only way of salvation. Not a few Roman Catholics 
have been converted at my missions, but this man 
was the only priest, as far as I know, who came to 
God under my ministry. This was the last mission 
of this visit. 

At the close of my Mission in the States, about 
five hundred friends and converts came down to the 
steamer to see me off. As the stately ship sailed 
away they sang, “God be with you till we meet 
again!’ I was never more eager to get home in 
my life. I had been parted from my wife and chil- 
dren for seven months—it seemed more like seven 
years tome. As we sailed up the Mersey I thought 
to myself that no city ever looked so grand as Liver- 
pool did that day. Very soon I was in the midst 
of my friends in the dear homeland, glad to have 
been away, more glad to have got back. 

Mr. Collier was having a great bazaar in connec- 
tion with his mission work. My wife and I took 
our children to the function, and there I encountered 
my good friend Mr. Byrom—a bachelor he then 
was. My daughter Zillah was hanging around me, 
and I was delighted with her love and sweet atten- 
tions. But I was afraid that she might worry my 
bachelor friend, unaccustomed to children; so I took 
some money out of my pocket, and displaying it in 
the palm of my hand said to my little girl, “Zillah, 


190 Gipsy Smith 


take what you like and go and spend it!’ Her big, 
dark eyes filled with tears. She looked up wistfully 
at me, and said, “Daddy, I don’t want your old 
money; I want you! You have been away from us 
for seven months; do you know it?” I felt that 
my little girl had justly rebuked me, and I felt at 
that moment how different she was from many 
people in the world who are willing to have the 
gifts of God, and yet do not recognize Him as the 
Father. I also called to mind these lines: 


“Thy gifts, alas! cannot suffice, 
Unless Thyself be given: 

Thy presence makes my paradise, 
And where Thou art is heaven.” 


One day, when we were living in Hanley, my two 
boys came home for dinner at half-past eleven in- 
stead of half-past twelve. I asked them what they 
had been doing. 

“Oh, we have been playing.” 

“Yes, you have been playing truant. I never 
played truant in my life.” 

“No,” said Albany, the elder, “because you never 
went to school!” 

“My boys, you will have to be punished.” 

I loved my boys, and I was a very young father, 
and I did not well know how to begin, so I said: 
“Albany, you go to one room, and Hanley, you go 
to another. You will have to stay there all day and 
have bread and water for dinner.” The youngsters 
marched off, Albany singing, “We'll work and wait 


Manchester to America “Return” 191 


till Jesus comes.’ Hanley followed in silence. He 
was too deeply ashamed of himself to speak or sing. 
When dinner-time came, some bread and water was 
taken up to them. Albany ate his eagerly and asked 
for more. Poor Hanley did not touch it. He could 
not bear to look at it, and his dinner stood on the 
table beside him all day. Presently Albany fell 
asleep, and began to snore loudly. Hanley could 
not sleep. As darkness came on he heard my step 
along the landing and called me to him. For I had 
quietly climbed the stairs a good many times that 
afternoon to see what my boys were doing. The 
punishment was more to me than to them. When 
I reached him I made a grab at him and lifted him 
up, bed-clothes and all for my young father’s heart 
was full of tenderness towards my boy. 

Weeping bitterly, he said to me: 

“Tf you will forgive me this once, I will never 
play truant any more.” 

“Forgive you,” I said, at the same time trying to 
keep back his tears as they fell. ‘Yes, I forgive you 
fully.” 

Then he said, “Do you really love me?” 

“Yes, you know I do.” 

“Are you quite sure?” 

“Yes, I am quite sure.” 

“Well, then,” said Hanley, “take me down to 
supper.” 

The boy naturally expected that I should show 
my love by my deeds. This is what our God expects 
fromus. “If ye love Me, keep My commandments.” 


192 Gipsy Smith 


Albany and his mother on one occasion were 
among my congregation at a mission service. That 
night I sang, “Throw Out the Life-line.”” Albany 
and I went home hand in hand. He stopped me 
underneath a lamp. He said, “Father, I believe that 
I am converted.” 

“How do you know, my son?” 

“Well, while you were singing, “Throw Out the 
Life-line,’ I seemed to get hold of it.” 

The boy had been deeply impressed, and for a 
time he really tried to be a good boy. When the 
day came for our going home he was full of his con- 
version. When the cab pulled up outside the door 
of our house he jumped out in hot haste, rang the 
bell, and when the maid came to the door at once 
asked to see his sister and his brother. “Hanley,” 
he said, “I am converted!’ Hanley was always a 
bit of a philosopher. He looked at his brother 
quietly for a moment and said, “Are you? I think 
I shall tell your schoolmaster; for he has had a lot 
of trouble with you.” Then plunging his little 
hands deep down into his pockets he meditated in 
silence for a few seconds. ‘‘No, I won’t; I will 
leave him to find out, because if you are really con- 
verted the schoolmaster will know it, and so shall 
we.” 

My children were always holding meetings in our 
home, the audience consisting of tables and chairs. 
One night I had come home from a service as the 
children were being sent to bed. They came to bid 
me good-night. But they had arranged alittle ruse 


Manchester to America “Return” 193 


for getting to stay up longer. I was reading in my 
room, and as they approached me I heard Albany 
say to his brother, “Hanley, let us have a meeting.” 
“All right,” says Hanley. The meeting started as 
soon as they came into my room. Albany gave out 
the hymn, “Jesus loves me, this I know,” saying, 
“Brother Gipsy Smith will play the accompani- 
ment.”” After the hymn was sung, he said, “Brother 
Gipsy Smith will pray.” Glad was I of this oppor- 
tunity given to me by my children to pray with them 
and for them. I knelt down and besought God to 
take them into His keeping, and to make them His. 
After that we sang a hymn. Albany then said, “We 
shall now have Brother Hanley Smith’s experi- 
ence.” Hanley at once rose and said— 


“T am only a little sparrow, 
A bird of low degree, 
My life’s of little value, 
But there’s One who cares for me.” 


When Hanley sat down Albany called upon me, 
saying, ‘““Now we shall have Brother Gipsy Smith’s 
experiences.” I spoke a few words to my children, 
and I can truthfully say I never spoke more earnest 
words in my life. I told them what God had done 
for me, how he had taken me out of the gipsy tent 
and made me a herald of His own gracious Gospel. 
And I added that these and even greater things He 
would do for them if they surrendered their lives to 
Him. Zillah was not present at this meeting, and 
the only person who yet remained to speak was Al- 


194 Gipsy Smith 


bany. After my little sermon Albany stood up, and 
with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, said: 
“Friends, the meeting is over!” 

Zillah usually took part in these meetings as the 
soloist, but she would never sing unless she was 
properly and ceremoniously introduced to the chairs 
and tables as Miss Zillah Smith: “Miss Zillah Smith 
will now oblige with a solo!” 

My two boys went to school at Tettenhall College, 
Wolverhampton, and attended, as all the boys of 
the college did, Dr. Berry’s church on Sunday. I 
once conducted a ten-days’ mission in that town, 
and my sons were allowed by the headmaster to 
spend the two Sundays with me. They sat beside 
me on the platform during an afternoon meeting, 
and in telling some simple little story about my 
home life I referred to the fact that my boys were 
beside me and that they attended a school in Wolver- 
hampton. On the way home Albany said to me, 
“Look here, if you are going to make me conspicu- 
ous like that, ’m not coming any more. I don’t 
like to be made conspicuous in public.” While we 
were drinking tea Albany kept nudging me, asking 
me what I was going to preach about at Queen 
Street that night. “Our chapel, you know”; and 
saying, “remember it must be one of your best 
sermons to-night.” My stern monitor was about 
fifteen years of age at this time. The boys said 
“good-night” to me before they entered the church, 
because they had to return to school immediately 
the service was over. When I had finished my ser- 


Manchester to America “Return” 195 


mon Albany leaned over the pew in front of him and 
was heard to say to one of his school chums—Dr. 
Berry’s son or nephew it was—“I think he has made 
a good impression!’ And presently the boy who 
did not want to be made conspicuous walked up the 
pulpit steps before the whole congregation to kiss 
his daddy “good-night.”” I said, “Hallo, who’s 
making me conspicuous now? You must not make 
me conspicuous!” But the boy was too proud of 
his father to take any notice of my little sally. 

It is the sweetest joy to me that my children have 
a great love for my people. They are never happier 
than when visiting the gipsies. A meal in the tent 
has a great charm and delight for them. This love 
for the gipsies is a natural growth in their lives. I 
have never sought to drill it into them. The natural 
outcome of love for their father has been love for 
their father’s folk. Zillah was recently chosen to 
recite Tennyson’s “Revenge” at the Exhibition Day 
of the Manchester Girls’ High School. She was 
asked to appear in costume, and, as her own idea, 
chose the garb of a gipsy girl. Zillah was not al- 
ways fond of this character. When she was a little 
thing I sometimes called her “little gipsy girl,” 
and she would answer quite hotly and fiercely, “No, 
Zillah not gipsy girl; gipsy daddy!” 

At a certain church where I was conducting a 
mission there was a very sour-looking office-bearer, 
.so sour that he kept everybody away from him. 
The church was crowded at every service, but the 
aisle of which he had charge was always the last 


196 Gipsy Smith 


one to be filled up. The people went to him as a 
last resort. Zillah, who attended the services, no- 
ticed the man, and said to me one night: 

“Daddy, is Jesus like that man?” 

“No, my dear,” I said, for I could not libel my 
Lord to please an official. “Why do you ask?” 

“Because if He is, I shall run away; but if He is 
like somebody I know, I shall put my arms round 
His neck and kiss Him.” 

Children know when Jesus is about. They sel- 
dom make a mistake and have more sense than we 
give them credit for. 

A mother coming home from one of my meetings 
went in to see her little girl of six or seven. 

“Where have you been, mother?” 

“T have been to hear Gipsy Smith, my dear.” 

“Who is he?” 

“Gipsy Smith is an evangelist.” 

“Oh,” said the little girl, her eyes lighting up with 
joy, “I know; that is the man who led Pilgrim to 
the Cross, where he lost his burden.” 

The answer was so beautiful, and in the deepest 
sense so correct, that the mother said: 

“Yes, my child, that is right.” 

Accompanied by a lady, I was one day walking 
up a street in a provincial town where I was con- 
ducting a mission. A little boy on the other side of 
the road shouted, “Aunty, aunty!’ The lady did 
not hear, and the boy, though he kept calling, re- 
mained at a safe distance. At length I asked her 
if that boy was calling to her. She looked round 


Manchester to America “Return” 197 


and said, “Oh, yes; that is Sydney,” and beckoned 
Sydney towards her. 

Sydney approached shyly, keeping as far from 
me as possible and clinging tenaciously to his aunt. 

“Sydney,” she said, “this is Gipsy Smith.” 

“How do you do, Sydney?’ I said. 

Sydney looked up at me with some wonder and 
more fear in his eyes. I expect he was astonished 
to find me so well dressed. 

“Sydney,” I said, “are you afraid of me?” 

“O—h, no; but it isn’t true, is it?” 

“What isn’t true?” I asked. 

“That you are one of them gipsies that get hold 
of little boys and takes away all their clothes?” 

“No, I am not; no, certainly not,’ I said. 

“T thought it was not true,” said Sydney, drawing 
a deep sigh of relief. 

“Who told you that story?” I asked. 

“Nurse.” 

Nurses should be instructed never to tell children 
fables of that sort, or anything that frightens the 
little ones. Prejudices poison. 


CHAPTER XIX 
MISSION TO THE GIPSIES 


I HAVE told how Mr. B. F. Byrom had met Dr. 
Simeon Macphail in Palestine and had spoken to 
him about my work. This, later on, led to an inti- 
mate friendship between me and Dr. Macphail, who 
has been very kind and helpful to me; indeed, it 
was to Dr. Macphail that I owed an invitation to 
conduct a fortnight’s mission in Edinburgh in May, 
1892. The place of meeting was Fountain Bridge 
Free Church (now United Free Church), of which 
the minister was the Rev. George D. Low, M.A. 
This was my first visit to Edinburgh and to Scot- 
land. The church was too small for the crowds 
who came to hear me, and on the last night of the 
mission, when I gave the story of my life, the meet- 
ing was held in St. George’s, of which the renowned 
Dr. Alexander Whyte was the minister. Dr. Whyte 
was good enough to preside at the lecture, and at 
the close he said to me: “I have heard many great 
men in that pulpit, but I have never felt my heart 
se moved as it was to-night by your story. I do not 
envy the man who listened to it with dry eyes.” 

Out of this visit to Edinburgh grew my mission 
to the gipsies. I had long had it in my heart to do 
something for my people, but the opportunity had 

198 





b 
Ne 


MY ELDEST SO? 


’ 


ALBANY 


lv ne 





* 5 f 
. ie | ee 


Mission to the Gipsies 199 


never come to me. I could not myself undertake 
the responsibility of the work, nor could I very well 
lead the way. Still, I had always hoped to see the 
time when some missionary would live among my 
people in a parsonage on wheels, teaching the chil- 
dren, and preaching the Gospel to them and their 
parents. My last service was on Monday night. 
I was to leave Edinburgh early on Tuesday morn- 
ing. I remember it was a miserably wet day, rain- 
ing in the determined and pitiless way that rain has 
in Edinburgh. In the midst of the rain, a lady 
drove up to Mr. Low’s manse and asked to see me. 
1 should like very much to give her name, but I am 
not permitted to do so. She had heard me in Dr. 
Whyte’s church the night before. Owing to illness, 
that was the only service that she had been able to 
attend. For some years she had been deeply inter- 
ested in the gipsies, and God had been continually 
urging her to do something for them. I asked her 
how she first came to be interested in my people. 
“Some years ago,” she said, “I was living near a 
great Lancashire town, and I devoted all my leisure 
to visiting the homes of the poor. I was one day 
summoned to a gipsy wagon where a poor woman 
lay very ill. I read the Bible to her, I prayed with 
her, and she seemed grateful.” The name of the 
spot where the gipsy encampment which the lady 
visited was situated was familiar to my ears. I 
asked the lady some further questions. I discov- 
ered that the poor woman was no other than my 
aunt, my mother’s brother’s wife. The distinguish- 


200 Gipsy Smith 


ing mark by which I recognized her was the big scar 
on her forehead that had been observed by the lady, 
and the way in which she dressed her hair to hide 
it. I felt my heart open in love and gratitude to 
one who had so kindly served one of my own folk. 
The upshot of the conversation was that the noble 
Scotch lady said to me: “If you will take charge 
of a mission to the gipsies, I will give you the first 
wagon, the parsonage on wheels for which you 
asked in your lecture last night.” And so was 
formed the Gipsy Gospel Wagon Mission. 

Dr. Alexander Whyte was good enough to be- 
come one of the directors, so also was Dr. Simeon 
Macphail, of Liverpool. The Rev. S. R. Collier, 
among all his multitudinous activities, finds time to 
manage the mission, and my friend, Mr. B. T. 
Byrom, is the honorary treasurer. The principal 
support of the mission has been the collections that 
are taken at the close of my lecture on the story of 
my life. We also get a few subscriptions and a few 
donations. Our first wagon missioner, who is still 
with us, was Mr. Wesley Baker, an excellent man 
and a good evangelist. He generally has an assist- 
ant for company and fellowship. A lonely life in 
a wagon would become almost unbearable. The 
wagon has travelled all over the country and has 
been especially useful in the New Forest and at 
Blackpool. Evangelistic work among the gipsies is 
slow and hard. My people have quick eyes, quick 
ears, and ready tongues. But for years—nay, for 
centuries—their hearts have been blinded to the 


Mission to the Gipsies 201 


things of God. There is hardly a race on the face 
of this globe to whom religion is so utterly foreign 
a thing. The gipsies are slow to comprehend the 
plan of salvation, and even when they have under- 
stood they are slow to use it, because, for one thing, 
their trade is declining; they are depending more 
and more on the fortune-telling, and they know 
very well that if they become Christians that lying 
practice must cease. Despite these difficulties, Mr. 
Baker and his assistants have done good work. 
They have been cheered by not a few conversions, 
and they have done not a little to give the children 
some smattering of an education. The manner of 
their life makes anything more than this impossible. 


CHAPTER XX 
THIRD VISIT TO AMERICA 


ACCOMPANIED by my wife, I sailed for the 
United States again in August, 1892, arriving in 
time for the Ocean Grove camp meetings, August 
21st to 31st. We crossed the Atlantic in the midst 
of a dreadful storm. I spent a good many hours 
of the time in the music-room singing hymns to the 
passengers who were most attentive. 

I was heartily welcomed at Ocean Grove, for now 
I was no stranger, but a brother beloved. Just as I 
was about to address the people a minister said to 
me: “Now, Brother Smith, you have got a crowded 
meeting. You have a bigger congregation than the 
bishop had. Go and spread yourself!” I looked at 
this man hard for a moment and said, “I am not 
going to spread myself at all. I am going to lift up 
my Lord!” and I began my address by telling the 
people what this minister had said to me. Weare 
only too apt to draw too much attention to our- 
selves. We donot sufficiently hide behind the Cross. 
At the close of the sermon about three hundred 
people were on their knees—some seeking to be 
filled with the Spirit, some offering thanks to God 
for victory over besetting sin, some backsliders 


202 


Third Visit to America 203 


begging to be restored, and many sinners seeking 
God for the first time. 

When I reached the house at which I was a guest, 
I saw a lady and her husband seated on the veranda 
waiting for me. Said the lady: 

“I wish to speak to you about my soul. I am 
very anxious. I have been seeking Christ for ten 
years.” 

“Well,” I said, “there is something wrong, surely. 
It does not take a seeking Saviour and a seeking 
sinner ten years to find one another if the sinner is 
in earnest.” 

She replied: “I have heard all the best preachers 
in America. I have travelled from city to city with 
all the leading evangelists, until I almost know their 
sermons by heart; but I cannot find what I want. 
I have read all the best books I can get hold of, and 
sometimes at the bottom of a page my hopes have 
been high, and I have thought I shall find what my 
soul desires when I turn over this leaf, but I have 
not found it yet.” 

I showed her where she had failed. The best 
preachers, the best evangelists, and the best books 
could not give her what she was seeking. She must 
take her eyes away from these completely. “Were 
I you,” I said to her, “I would refuse to hear an- 
other sermon or read another book, or even another 
chapter. I would go home now and shut myself up 
alone with God and settle the matter there, for it is 
not men nor meetings nor methods that you need, 
but an interview with the Son of God. And like the 


204. Gipsy Smith 


woman who touched the hem of His garment, when 
you pass through the crowds and get to Jesus your 
present troubles will be all over, and rest and peace 
will come.” She went away and did as I advised 
her. The next day I saw her with beaming face. I 
asked her how it was with her, and she replied: 


“T struggled and wrestled to win it, 
The blessing that setteth me free, — 

But when I had ceased from my struggles, 
His peace Jesus gave unto me.” 


I was well known to many of the ministers at the 
Ocean Grove camp meetings, and before they were 
over I had practically completed my programme for 
this visit. Among my audience at Ocean Grove 
was a famous negress preacher, Amanda Smith. 
Once or twice she called out in the midst of my ad- 
dress, ““That’s hit the bull’s-eye, Brother Smith; 
hit it again!’ Her face the while was shining like 
ebony. There was another colored sister in whose 
heart I had won a place. She sat next to my wife 
on the platform, not knowing that she was my wife. 
Turning to Mrs. Smith, she said: “TI like that young 
man. I’ve taken quite a fancy to him. I think he 
promises very well. I think I will get him to come 
along with me conducting missions among my 
people. We should make a very good team.” “Oh, 
indeed,” said Mrs. Smith, much amused; “do you 
know he is my husband?” “Oh, if he is, he is all 
right for that, and you are all right, too.” 


Third Visit to America 205 


I need not give a detailed account of all the mis- 
sions I conducted during this tour. But there are 
some striking incidents still strong and clear in 
my mind which will probably be of interest to my 
readers. I conducted a mission at Lynn, Massa- 
chusetts, about twenty miles from Boston, at the 
church of Dr. Whittaker, an able, kindly, scholarly 
man. At the close of one of the services, when I 
had come down from the pulpit, a mother walked 
up the aisle towards me, leading her little boy. 

“Will you shake hands with my boy, sir?” 

“Yes, certainly, but why do you want me to do 
so?” 

“T think if the Lord spares him to grow up to be 
a man it will be nice for him to say, ‘I shook hands 
with a gipsy whom God had saved, and taken out of 
his tent to be a preacher. That gipsy led my 
mother to Christ.’ I think that by shaking hands 
with you the incident will be fastened on his mind 
forever.” 

So I held out my hand to the little fellow, and he 
pushed his left hand to me. 

“My boy, is there anything the matter with your 
right hand? Is it well and strong like this one?” 

SCS WSityt 

“Well, then, I will not shake hands with the left. 
I must have the right one.” 

Still he kept his right hand behind his back, and 
the only thing which moved in his face were his 
eyes, which seemed to grow bigger and bigger. He 
seemed firm, and I had to be firmer. Pointing to a 


206 Gipsy Smith 


group of people, I said: “You see those people? 
They are waiting for me, and unless you are quick 
I shall go to them before we have shaken hands.” 
When he thought I was really going he pulled his 
little right hand from behind his back and pushed it 
towards me. But now it was shut. I said, “Open 
your hand.” He seemed very loath indeed to do so, 
but after much coaxing the tight, obstinate little 
fingers gave way and his hand opened. ‘There in 
the palm lay three or four marbles. The little fel- 
low could not take my hand because of his play- 
things. And many a man misses the hand that was 
pierced because of his playthings. “Little children, 
keep yourselves from idols,” or, as the Scot said, 
“Wee bairnies, keep yersels frae dolls.” 

I conducted a most successful mission at Wharton 
Street Methodist Episcopal Church, Philadelphia, 
of which Dr. Vernon was pastor. My work was 
easy there, because all the people were in sympathy 
with it. 

When I think of Old Wharton Street my mind at 
once recalls a beautiful story of a young girl there. 
She was a bright creature, fond of society, fond of 
pleasure. The story begins some weeks before my 
mission. A dance was to be held at a friend’s house, 
and the girl was anxious to go to it. Her mother 
said, “Lilly, if you get converted and join the 
Church you may go to the dance.” Shortly after 
this Lilly joined the Church, and she said to her 
mother, “Now that I have joined the Church, 
mother, I may go to the dance, may I not?” “Oh, 


Third Visit to America 207 


but, my dear, you have joined the Church, it is true; 
but you are not converted. You know very well 
that you are not, and we can see very well that you 
are not.” Nothing more was said on that occasion. 
Presently I came to the church to conduct a mission, 
and Lilly was persuaded to attend. One night her 
proud, wayward heart was subdued and broken in 
penitence, and she gave herself to God. There was 
still a week or two before the dance. Her mother 
knew of the great change in her daughter’s life, and 
she noticed also that Lilly had ceased to speak about 
the dance. One day she said, “Lilly, what about 
this dance; it comes off next week. Are you go- 
ing?” “Oh, mother dear,” said the sweet girl, 
throwing her arms round her mother’s neck and 
shedding tears of joy, “I have given my heart to 
the Lord, and I have no longer any desire to go to 
the dance.” Mother and daughter both shed happy 
tears of gratitude to God. 

Most of my missions in America were under the 
auspices of Methodist Episcopal Churches, but at 
Yonkers, on the Hudson, I held a really united cam- 
paign. All the ministers of the place, except the 
incumbent of the Episcopal Church, joined to invite 
me. I was altogether nearly a month in Yonkers, 
and this mission is among the greenest spots in my 
life. My wife and I spent one of the happiest 
months of our lives—away from home, that is— 
in Yonkers. Hundreds passed through the inquiry- 
room, rich and poor. An amusing little incident 
occurred one night. Three ladies rose from their 


208 Gipsy Smith 


places near the pulpit and asked for prayer. They 
did not come into the inquiry-room at the close of 
the meeting, and I stepped down to ask them the 
reason why. “Oh no, we could not go there; we 
could not think of it,” said one of them. 

“Are you a Christian?’ I asked. 

“No, sir; I’m an Episcopalian.” 

Cne night, a boy of ten came into the inquiry- 
room; the next night he brought his mother, and 
the night after they two brought the grandfather. 

I made some very valuable friends at Yonkers, 
including Dr. Hobart and Dr. Cole. When I left, 
the ministers presented me with an address, in- 
scribed “To the ‘Rev.’ Rodney Smith.” “We love 
you,” they said, “with the love of brothers, and we 
are sure we shall meet when our work and yours is 
done, and love you through eternal years in heaven.” 
Dr. Hobart wrote to me some time after the mission 
that he had on his books the names and addresses 
of sixty people who had joined the church as the 
result of the mission, and that he could account for 
every one of them. 

I paid a second visit to Calvary Methodist Epis- 
copal Church, New York, and had again the pleas- 
ure of working under Dr. Day. The church seated 
two thousand three hundred people, and it was 
crowded every night during the best part of a 
month. 

We ministers and evangelists must cultivate the 
greatest skill in throwing the gospel net. In the 
work of saving men we need to use all the brains 


Third Visit to America 209 


we have, and think for God as earnestly and as 
thoroughly as we think for our business. 

Among the congregation at Calvary Methodist 
Episcopal Church was an intelligent, educated man, 
who several times asked for prayers on his behalf, 
but he did not seem to get any further forward. He 
was earnest, he was sincere, but no light, no joy, 
came into his soul. I was grieved to the heart to 
witness his distress. I had a talk with him, and 
discovered that he had been a backslider for years. 
He said: 

“T have given myself fully to Christ as far as I 
know, and I have cut myself off from every sinful 
thing. I have asked Christ in sincerity and in truth 
to restore to me the joy of His salvation, but still 
there is no happiness in my heart. I do not under- 
stand myself.” 

“What were you doing in the church when you 
turned your back on God?” 

“TI was at the head of a large class of Sunday- 
school children, and I gave it up in a temper.” 

“Ah, that explains everything. You wickedly 
threw up your duty. You must begin work again 
at once and start where you left off.” 

After some persuasion he said he would. I lost 
sight of him for a few days, but when he returned 
he said to me: “I did as you told me, and all the 
old joy has come back.” 

I believe there is a great lesson in this incident 
for many Christians who have been disappointed in 
the spiritual life. They sing: 


210 Gipsy Smith 


“Where is the blessedness I knew 
When first I saw the Lord?” 


My answer is, “It is where you left it. You have 
been dropping some of your Christian work. Go 
back to it, and you will find the blessing there. God 
is the same. It is you who have changed.” 

I had been a guest of General Macalpine and Mrs. 
Macalpine at Sing Sing for a few weeks. This 
was just before the General became a member of 
the Cleveland Cabinet. His wife was a Brandreth, 
a member of the well-known family of manufac- 
turing chemists. Mrs. Macalpine suggested that I 
should hold drawing-room meetings on Fifth Ave- 
nue, New York. I gladly consented. These meet- 
ings were held in one of the largest mansions of the 
city. There was no advertising, but personal letters 
were sent to the aristocratic ladies of New York, 
inviting their attendance. At the first meeting one 
hundred and seventy-five ladies, including many of 
the exclusive four hundred, gathered at eleven 
o’clock to hear a gospel address by a converted 
gipsy. Mrs. Rockefeller and her daughter, Mrs. 
Russell Sage, and many other well-known ladies, 
were present. 

My first sermon was on “Repentance.” I did 
not try to adapt myself in any way to the rank of 
my congregation. I only remembered that they 
were sinners needing a Saviour. It was just an 
ordinary service, lasting for an hour and a quarter. 
At the close one of my congregation said to me, “If 


Third Visit to America 211 


what you say is religion, I know nothing about it.” 
Another lady, who was weeping bitterly, sought my 
counsel. “God has spoken to you,” I said, “obey 
Him; follow the light.” 

A lady, who had quite recently lost her husband 
and her child, thanked me at the close of one of the 
services, and said, “Remember that in every con- 
gregation, however small, there is always somebody 
with a broken heart.” 

The original plan was for six meetings, but a 
seventh was held at the request of the ladies, at 
which the men were invited to join their wives, 
mothers, and sisters. I remember that Mr. Rocke- 
feller himself was among the congregation. I have 
had many communications from America regarding 
these drawing-room meetings, giving conclusive tes- 
timony to the lasting good that was wrought by 
them. 

During my mission at Tarrytown, on the Hud- 
son, I was helped by my sister, Mrs. Evens, and her 
husband. We had splendid gatherings for a month 
in the church of Dr. McAnny, a beautiful preacher, 
not perhaps of the most popular type, but winning, 
poetical, and eloquent. I should almost say that 
there were too many nosegays in his sermons, but 
in the midst of all the beauty of his discourse there 
was a strong evangelical note. 

One night we had a curious and rather trying 
experience. The service had been powerful until 
the end, but when the penitents were invited to come 
forward to the communion-rail, no one moved. 


212 Gipsy Smith 


This has happened several times in the course of my 
ministry. It means, I think, that God desires first 
of all to test our faith, and in the second place to 
humble us, to make us realize keenly that the power 
is in His hands. However, when the benediction 
was pronounced the people still sat in their seats. 
They would neither go away nor come forward. I 
concluded that God was working in their hearts, 
and that His Spirit was striving against their hard- 
ness and obstinacy. I began to sing a hymn, “The 
Saviour is calling thee, sinner,” with the refrain, 
“Jesus will help if you try.” I do not think I had 
concluded the first verse before a young man, seated 
in a back pew, arose and walked up the aisle to the 
communion-rail. While I was still singing, thirty 
or forty more followed him. The fact was, that 
many of the people had been eager to come, and 
that each was looking to the other to lead the way. 
The people were calling out in their hearts, as they 
are always doing, for a leader. I often wonder, in 
the midst of such experiences, how far it is safe to 
go in constraining people, and I have come to the 
conclusion that we may legitimately go a long way 
farther than any of us have yet gone. Our duty is 
to bring the people to Christ, and to do so we must 
use every expedient. 

My visit to Denver, Colorado, will live in my 
memory forever. It meant a journey of two thou- 
sand miles across the continent, occupying three 
nights and two days. American travelling is a lux- 
ury, but you have to pay for it. The railway 


Third Visit to America 213 


journey over this great territory impressed me just 
as much as did my voyage across the Atlantic, and I 
enjoyed it vastly more, because I am a poor sailor. 
One cannot take such a journey without being im- 
pressed by the enormous and almost exhaustless 
possibilities of the country. It is easy to use the 
words “exhaustless possibilities,” but to realize it, 
to have it, so to speak, burned into one’s mind, one 
has only to undertake a long journey in the States. 
Some of the country was flat and dull, but other 
parts of it were richly wooded. We passed through 
miles and miles of magnificent forests. Colorado is 
very high, and is often for months without rain, but 
it is irrigated from the Rockies, and so great is the 
natural fertility, that people say, “You tickle the 
earth, and it smiles into a harvest.” 

Forty years ago Denver was inhabited by Red 
Indians, and overrun by buffaloes and other wild 
animals. It has now a population of about two 
hundred thousand, with magnificent residences, 
stores, and churches, and is called the Queen City 
of the West. The town lies on a plateau five thou- 
sand feet above the sea-level. The air is dry, brac- 
ing, and wholesome. Mrs. Smith, who was suffer. 
ing somewhat from bronchitis, was cured at once 
when we entered Denver. On the other hand, the 
air had such an effect on my voice that I could 
speak all right, but I could not sing. However, the 
people told me that they could not get good singers 
to visit Denver on account of this peculiarity of the 
air. It was very flattering to me to be told that I 


214 Gipsy Smith 


was suffering from the same disability as affected 
eminent sopranos, baritones, etc. | 

The mission was held in a church which had cost 
£50,000 to build, and which possessed an organ 
worth £6,000. The pastor was Dr. McIntyre, and 
he was accustomed to address a congregation of 
two thousand. I preached every night for a month 
to daily increasing crowds. Five hundred people 
knelt at the communion-rail as penitents, one of 
whom was a Chinaman. 

The sheriff of Denver sat near the platform at 
one of the services. He pointed out to me a young 
man who had risen to ask for prayer, but whom I 
had not seen. ‘Get that man out while he feels 
like it!’ he said. Of course, I took that to be the 
act of a Christian man. The morning after, I called 
on the sheriff and began to talk with him about the 
man. There was another man in the room who had 
been at the meeting and had sat next to the sheriff. 
Presently I observed that they were exchanging 
significant glances, and I asked what it meant. 

“Oh,” said the sheriff, “you are talking to me as 
if I were a Christian man, and I am not.” 

“T am amazed,” I said. “Did you not the other 
night urge me to get hold of a man who seemed 
anxious to come out. If you are not a Christian, 
why did you do that?” 

He answered thus: “When I was a boy I attended 
some revival meetings in our town. My father was 
a Methodist local preacher for thirty years. During 
the service my boyish heart was moved, and I 





HANLEY, MY YOUNGER SON. 





Third Visit to America 215 


wanted so much to be a Christian. I left my 
father’s pew and began to walk to the communion- 
rail. He saw me on the way and came to meet me. 

“What do you want, my son?’ 

““T am going to the Communion-rail to seek re- 
ligion.’ 

“ ‘Wait till you get home and I will talk to you 
about it.’ 

“My young desire was crushed. Obedient to my 
father I went back to my seat. When we reached 
home he talked to me and prayed with me, but I did 
not get religion, and I have not got it yet. It has 
been my firm conviction that if I had been allowed 
to go to the altar that night I should not only have 
found Christ as my Saviour, but I should have been 
in the ministry. And so, whenever I have seen a 
man or a woman, a boy or a girl, showing a desire 
to seek God I have given all the encouragement I 
could.” 


CHAPTER XxI 
GLASGOW 


I CONDUCTED a great mission campaign in Glas- 
gow from September, 1893, to the end of January, 
1894. The mission was arranged by a committee 
of twelve free church ministers, and the work was 
carried on in almost as many churches. The cam- 
paign was interrupted for a short time by the 
Christmas holidays, and by a short vacation that I 
took. During this visit to Glasgow I met the late 
Professor Henry Drummond, who was very kind to 
me. When he and I first conversed together I had 
been working for seven weeks in seven churches, 
and I told him in reply to a question, that I had not 
given the same address twice. This statement 
seemed to impress him greatly. He asked me some 
questions about my life, and how I prepared my 
discourses. I was attracted at once by the sweetness 
of his spirit and the graciousness of his manner and 
disposition. Henry Drummond at once appealed to 
the best in you. I have met many great ministers 
and preachers in my life, but never one in whose 
company I felt more at ease than Henry Drum- 
mond’s. There was no subduing awe about him. 
One would laugh at oneself for being afraid of him, 


216 


Glasgow 217 


yet he conveyed to one’s mind an unmistakable im- 
pression of greatness. 

It took a long time to break down the caution 
and reserve of the Scotch character, but once it was 
broken down it broke down completely. Three 
thousand people passed through the inquiry-room. 
A large proportion of these were men. Some of 
them, indeed, were remarkable triumphs of God’s 
grace. The history of the conversion of some of 
these men was curious. At first they would be 
merely interested in the services. Then they would 
be impressed, and perhaps convicted of sin, and so 
they were led to follow me from church to church, 
until, in some cases, they had been listening to me 
for quite seven weeks before they fully resolved to 
give their lives to God. At one service, and that 
the most fruitful, there was no sermon, because the 
people began to go into the inquiry-room imme- 
diately after the hymn. I have no doubt that many 
of them had already made up their minds, and really 
came to the meeting with the intention of taking 
their stand publicly. We spent that whole evening 
in simply saying to the people, “Come, come!” I 
think that God taught us a great lesson that night. 
We are so apt to think that this must be done, and 
that that must be done, and that a certain fixed 
course of procedure must be followed, or else we 
must not look for results. Too often I fear our 
rules and regulations and orders of service simply 
intrude between men’s souls and their God. We 
all need to be taught when to stand aside. 


218 Gipsy Smith 


The figures do not indicate with anything like 
completeness the total results. When the ministers 
of the city came to visit the individual inquirers, 
they often found that in the same house there were 
three or four other persons who had been brought 
to God during the mission. When a Scotsman is 
once set on fire, he blazes away at white heat. And 
so it came about that among the best workers dur- 
ing the closing week of the mission were the con- 
verts of the early weeks. I have never met people 
in my life who could sing Sankey’s hymns better 
than the folks of Edinburgh and Glasgow. 

The farewell meeting of the mission was held in 
the City Hall, one of the largest public buildings in 
Glasgow. It was crammed to suffocation. My 
heart was full of gratitude to God for the great 
things He had done for us in Glasgow, and to my 
warm-hearted Scotch friends for their exceeding 
great kindness. I think it was that night that I en- 
joyed a little rub at them for their comical and 
absurd attitude—for so it seemed to me—towards 
instrumental music. They would not let me have 
an instrument at the morning service nor at the 
afternoon service, but I might have one for the 
evening service. The idea was, I believe, that the 
morning and afternoon services were attended by 
staid, sober, decorous Presbyterians, who regarded 
instrumental music as a desecration of the regular 
services in the sanctuary. The evening services in 
Scotland are always more of an evangelistic char- 
acter, and are intended more particularly to reach 


Glasgow 219 


the outsiders and the non-church-goers. I suppose 
it was thought that instrumental music would please — 
these people, and would not offend their less sensi- 
tive, less decorous consciences. Since 1894, how- 
ever, things have greatly changed, even in Scotland, 
and most of the Presbyterian Churches, I am told, 
have now organs or harmoniums. I do not believe 
for a moment that the result has been a diminution 
in the solidity and gravity of the Scotch character. 


CHAPTER XXII 
AUSTRALIA 


Dourine the last weeks of my stay in Glasgow, 
my friend, Mr. J. L. Byrom, J.P., brother of Mr. 
B. F. Byrom, suggested that I should take a tour 
round the world, spending most of the time in Aus: 
tralia, and coming back by way of America. He 
most generously bought my ticket for the whole 
journey, a valuable gift. Accordingly I set sail 
from Tilbury Docks on board the P. and O. liner, 
Rome, in April, 1894. We sailed vid the Suez 
Canal, and landed at Adelaide on May 22d. We 
were five weeks on the sea, and a more dreary, 
profitless five weeks I do not think I have ever spent 
in my life. I was heartily glad to get on shore 
again. I ama bad sailor, and I was infinitely tired 
of the sea. Besides the people on board were the 
most godless set of beings that I have ever mingled 
with. They spent most of their time in drinking 
and gambling, and all the forms of worldliness that 
they could devise. I have seen them make a pool 
on Sunday morning on the running of the ship, and 
then go in to prayers. 

The voyage was marked by two incidents which 
still remain in my memory. Some of us went 


220 


Australia 221 


ashore at Port Said. This town is the most desper- 
ately wicked place on earth, and we were warned 
by the captain that we must go about in groups. It 
was not safe for any one of us to go alone. The 
place is simply infested with pestering vendors of 
_all sorts of trifles. They knew the names of a few 
eminent English people, and we were addressed as 
Mr. Gladstone or Lord Salisbury, or Lord Rose- 
bery, or by the name of some other English notable. 
The vendor who pursued me called me Mr. Glad- 
stone. His attentions were unlimited. He followed 
me up and down I do not know how many streets, 
pressing me to buy some cigarette holders. I told 
him that I did not smoke, but that had no effect on 
him, because he did not seem to understand me. 
Then I acted out my dislike of smoking. I feigned 
to be putting a cigarette in my mouth, and then tak- 
ing it out and throwing it away with an expression 
of disgust. At last it dawned upon the Arab what 
I had been trying to say, “Ah, oh, eh, umph! You 
a tottle-ottler! I spend all my speak on you for 
nothing!’ He walked away, looking at me with in- 
finite scorn, but I felt much relieved. 

We were diverted at Aden by the feats of the 
small diving boys. The passengers amused them- 
selves by throwing pieces of money into the water, 
and seeing the boys dive for them. A coin does not 
take a straight course to the bottom. Its pathway 
is rather a wriggling one, and the art of the boys 
is to get hold of the money while it is still on its 
course to the bed of the ocean. They are exceed- 


g22 Gipsy Smith 


ingly smart little fellows. One of them clambered 
up the side of the ship like a monkey, and taking 
ten three-penny pieces out of the right side of his 
mouth, held them up, saying, “Big money for that, 
please!’ He meant: “Give me half a crown for it.” 
When he was given his half-crown he took ten more 
three-penny pieces from the left side of his mouth 
and asked for another half-crown. The person who 
had obliged him before could not do so again, and 
so I, who was standing by, was asked to accommo- 
date him. I took six half-crowns out of my right 
pocket, and before I had brought my left hand to 
the right, he had whisked off four of them, and 
dived again into the sea. His smartness was much 
admired, and I was greatly chaffed at being so 
cleverly done. “You are a fine gipsy, you are!” 
said the people. 

The Sunday before we landed, while I was dress- 
ing for dinner in my state-room, there was a knock 
at my door. A deputation of ladies came to request 
me to give a little lecture to the passengers that 
evening. I knew they did not desire to hear the 
gospel. I knew they had been rude to the good old 
bishop on board the ship, who had lovingly and 
tenderly remonstrated with them on their gambling. 
“It does grieve me,” he said, “to see gentle girls 
gambling like old men.” ‘They had actually that 
morning raffled tickets by auction round the old 
bishop’s chair. The fact is that they were some- 
what tickled at having a gipsy travelling with them, 
first class. They were curious to know all about 





MY DAUGHTER, ZILLAH, IN GIPSY COSTUME 


ay 





oat, 


ong th ave 


-—"s 








Australia 223 


me, and I had taken care not to satisfy their inquis- 
itiveness. Questions were often put to me with the 
intention of drawing me on. But a gipsy is usually 
a shrewd fellow, and I was not to be caught. This 
had annoyed them, and suggested to them the device 
of getting me to deliver a lecture to them. Accord- 
ingly I graciously declined the invitation, adding: 
“Most of you are going to Adelaide, Sydney, Mel- 
bourne, or other of the large towns of Australia. 
Now I shall be preaching in these towns, and my 
meetings will be advertised. If you will come and 
hear me I shall be very pleased.”” They went away 
feeling sore and balked. But the incident greatly 
raised my reputation, even among those who had 
been maliciously trying to draw me. 

My fellow-passengers were mostly rich people, 
but some of them were neither courteous nor kind. 
I was amused one day by the remark of an insolent 
young fellow. “I suppose, Mr. Smith,” he said, 
“the society on board is very different from what 
you are accustomed to?” I answered, “If you mean 
that it is inferior, it 7s different.” The supercilious 
youth said no more to me. On another occasion, 
when we were having some little innocent sports 
on deck, a general and myself were elected as 
judges. Two young men, who were competing in 
an obstacle race, were disqualified before they 
started—which meant that the race must be re-run. 
I told them they had disqualified themselves, but 
they persisted in running. When the contest was 
over I declared it was no race. A captain in the 


224 Gipsy Smith 


army, who consisted mostly of legs, and who was 
a friend of one of the competitors, said, “Who are 
you, you little under-sized piece of humanity?” 
“Captain,” I said, “my brains are not in my legs.” 
From that moment the gallant captain treated me 
with the utmost respect. 

My arrival in Adelaide was quite unheralded. 

My coming had not been trumpeted abroad, and 
my sole human equipment consisted of my letters of 
introduction from Dr. McLaren, of Manchester, 
and other free church leaders. Dr. McLaren had 
been particularly kind to me in connection with this 
visit. He called me to his house before I left, and 
spoke to me about the various places I should visit. 
When I arrived in Adelaide the Methodist General 
Conference was in session, and I at once placed my 
letters of introduction before the secretary. He 
received me rather coldly, and, indeed, my reception 
by the assembly was anything but hearty and en- 
couraging. ‘Thomas Cook, the well-known Wes- 
leyan evangelist, after conducting a month’s mission 
at Pirie Street Church, Adelaide, had left for the 
interior of the colony. I had made up my mind to 
preach in Adelaide, the first city of Australia I 
touched, and I naturally wanted a mission in a 
Methodist Church. The Methodist ministers were 
not at all anxious to have me. “Why did you not 
tell us you were coming?” “Why did not your 
pastor write to inform us of your visit to the col- 
onies?”’ I told them that personally I disliked long 
preliminary booming, that I desired to begin quietly, 


Australia 225 


to stand on my own merits, and that, besides, my 
trip to the colony was as much for rest and educa- 
tion as for work. I first approached the superin- 
tendent minister of Pirie Street Church, and sug- 
gested that I should hold a mission there. My idea 
was that that would help those who had declared 
for Christ during the mission that Mr. Cook had 
just conducted. No, they would not have that at 
all. Then Mr. Cook had planned to take a mission 
in Archer Street Church, and had not been able to 
fulfil his engagement. I saw Mr. Lloyd, the min- 
ister, and Mr. Drew, a leading layman, and I sug- 
gested that I should hold a mission there. They 
both said that it would never do. The disappoint- 
ment that the people had suffered when Mr. Cook 
failed them would make it useless for me to try to 
take his place. I said, “If I am not afraid to face 
this disappointment, I think you ought to give me 
a chance.” I suggested that they should telegraph 
to Mr. Cook and see what he said. “Mind you, I 
am no fraud, no adventurer. I shall abide by Mr. 
Cook’s answer.” But they were not willing to do 
this. It was suggested that I should go on to Mel- 
bourne to the Forward Movement and conduct a 
mission there. My Adelaide friends were good 
enough to say that if that mission was successful 
they would invite me to their town. I said, “No, 
I am going to preach in Adelaide if I preach in the 
street. If my own Methodist Church won’t take 
me in, there are other churches that will.” When 
I said this I was not speaking without my book, 


226 Gipsy Smith 


because I knew that Franklin Street Bible Christian 
Church, of which Chief-Justice Way was a member, 
was open to me. I had met Chief-Justice Way in 
America. He knew me and my work. When I told 
my Wesleyan Methodist friends that this church 
was open to me they said, “Well, suppose you go 
there for a mission, and if we want you afterwards, 
will you come to us?” “Yes,” I said, “I will.” I 
was somewhat discouraged by this rather freezing 
reception, but I did not get angry. I felt confident 
that God had sent me to Australia, and that pres- 
ently all would be well. 

I called on the minister of Frankin Street Bible 
Christian Church, and told him that I knew Gipsy 
Smith was in the colony, that he was willing to con- 
duct a ten days’ mission for the Bible Christians, 
and that he was prepared to start work on Sunday. 
It was now Thursday. The minister asked me what 
authority I had to speak for Gipsy Smith, and I 
replied by saying, “Look into my face and see if 
you can discover any sign of dishonesty.” And he 
took my word for it, and without any evidence pro- 
duced, he accepted my statements. We went off 
together to see the editors of the two newspapers in 
the city to arrange for notices of the mission. When 
Wwe were discussing the matter I took my letters of 
introduction from my pocket, and, handing them to 
the editor, said, “Perhaps these may be of some use 
to you.” The minister looked at me gaspingly, and 
said, “Are you Gipsy Smith?” I confessed that I 
was, whereupon the old man embraced me tenderly. 


Australia 227 


Franklin Street Church was seated for about 
seven hundred or eight hundred people, and it was 
crowded every night during the ten days of the mis- 
sion. Sixty or seventy boys from the Way College, 
who all attend the church, passed through the in- 
quiry-rooms. The great things that were being 
done in Franklin Street were soon known all over 
the city, and when the ten days were up Archer 
Street Church, the congregation that Mr. Cook had 
disappointed, was ready for me. My feet had been 
established on a rock in Adelaide. I preached for 
six weeks in the city to ever-increasing congrega- 
tions. If my Wesleyan Methodist brethren had 
received me with warmth and cordiality, I should 
perhaps have stayed only a fortnight in the town, 
but I stayed six weeks, because I was determined 
before I left to make myself thoroughly felt. 

During my stay in Adelaide I visited the prison 
and preached to the convicts, addressing them as I 
should have addressed an ordinary congregation. 
I sang to them: 


“There’s a hand held out in pity, 
There’s a hand held out in love, 
It will pilot to the city, 

To our Father’s house above. 
There’s a hand held out to you, 
There’s a hand held out to me.” 


Some of the poor fellows wept bitterly. I always 
feel very tenderly towards convicts. When I look 
at one, I say to myself, like the old Puritan, “There 


228 Gipsy Smith 


am I, but for the grace of God.” Besides, I always 
reflect that there are a great many persons outside 
prisons who are worse than those inside. 

Mr. Drew, a leading layman of Archer Street 
Church whom I have already referred to, was a di- 
rector of the Children’s Hospital, and persuaded 
me to tell the story of my life on behalf of the in- 
stitution. Chief-Justice Way presided over an 
assembly which crowded the Town Hall, the largest 
building in the city. All the tickets were sold several 
days before the meeting. After deducting all ex- 
penses, about £100 was handed over to the hospital. 
The authorities, in gratitude, decided that for five 
years two of the little cots should bear the name 
“Gipsy Smith’s Cot.”” I was very glad to be of some 
help to the little sufferers as well as to the older 
sinners. 

Chief-Justice Way did all he could to make my 
visit to the town, of which he is a distinguished 
ornament, bright and pleasant. When he came to 
England in the Diamond Jubilee year I had some 
further communication with him. He told me that 
my work in Australia was not, and never would be, 
forgotten. 

The last meeting I attended in Adelaide was the 
service which Mr. Cook returned to hold as his fare- 
well to the colony. Pirie Street Church was packed 
to the doors, and a more enthusiastic service could 
hardly be conceived. Many letters and telegrams 
were sent from places where Mr. Cook had held 
missions. Next morning, Mr. Cook and I left Ade- 


Australia 229 


laide by the same train, he for Melbourne and I for 
Ballarat. The railway station was crowded with 
people who had come to say good-by to us. 

By this time news had reached me from England 
that my wife was very seriously ill. In consequence 
I had to shorten my visit considerably, and my plans 
were altogether altered. I could not get a boat for 
three weeks yet, and I spent this agonizing period 
in work at Ballarat, Melbourne, and Sydney. I 
joined Mr. Cook in the midst of his wonderful mis- 
sion at Melbourne in connection with the Forward 
Movement. I had written to him telling him that 
my wife was seriously ill, that my plans were 
changed, that I was on my way to Sydney, and that 
I should like to spend a Sunday with him. He re- 
plied by telegraph, asking me if I would take his 
service on Sunday morning, and I gladly consented. 
It was as Mr. Cook put it in his book—one of the 
Days of God’s Right Hand. 

So great was the impression made upon the 
people by these services that they besought me to 
conduct more services for them. I told them that 
I was in Mr. Cook’s hands. It was his mission. 
He must direct. I would only do just what he 
wished. The outcome of my friends’ importunity 
was an arrangement that I should conduct noonday 
services on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. 
On each of these three days I had a congregation 
of over two thousand people, a large majority of 
whom were men—lawyers, merchants, and work- 
men. The crowning gathering was on the Thurs- 


230 Gipsy Smith 


day night, when I told the people the story of my 
life. The meeting was announced to commence at 
7.30, but by four o’clock the place was crowded, 
and there were two or three times as many people 
outside. Wherever a window could be reached 
from the ground that window was broken, and 
whatever could be found to stand upon was seized 
and utilized. Thirty fainting people were carried 
into the manse, next door to the church. Mr. 
Edgar, the minister, told me, when on a visit to 
Manchester, that he had paid over £7 for broken 
glass! Had I been on the spot I should have begun 
my lecture as soon as the place was full, but not 
anticipating this extraordinary enthusiasm, I had 
gone into the country to spend the day with some 
friends, arranging to return in time for my lecture. 
The crowd bore the long wait of three-and-a-half 
hours with great patience and good-humor, but it 
was deemed advisable to put up speaker after 
speaker to give addresses in order that the audience 
might be kept orderly and interested. 

I spent the last week in Australia at Sydney, in 
the Centenary Hall, the head-quarters of the For- 
ward Movement. The hall seated two thousand five 
hundred people, and was the largest building I 
preached in in the colony; but it was far too small 
for the crowds who came to the services. 

My impression of Australia was that there were 
untold possibilities for Christian work in the coun- 
try. Many of the people are from England—from 
home, as they say—and the moment you begin to 


Australia 231 


talk to them about the old country they are home- 
sick. Their hearts become tender and receptive. 
There are not a few people in Australia who have 
been shipped there by their friends in England, so 
that they may redeem their careers and stand erect 
on their feet again. Such people gain from their 
new life not only new opportunities, but fresh sus- 
ceptibility to moral and religious influences. They 
make the material among which good evangelistic 
work can be done. They come to your meetings, 
and because you are from home, you make a par- 
ticular appeal to them. You are a link between 
them and the people they have left behind, and they 
think you are speaking to them in the name of their 
friends in the old country. It seemed to me easy 
to get the Australians to attend evangelistic services. 
It fell that my visit immediately followed their 
great financial collapse, and it may be that their dis- 
tress and difficulties made their hearts more hungry 
for the Gospel. 

Travelling vid the Fiji Islands I reached British 
Columbia, and thence proceeded by way of Mon- 
treal to New York. A cable from home was await- 
ing me, saying that my wife was better, and that 
there was no need to hurry to England if work 
demanded my stay in America. Accordingly I paid 
a short visit to Ocean Grove, and conducted a 
month’s mission in Indianapolis. A local paper 
said: “No adequate idea of the sermons of Mr. 
Smith can be conveyed by literal reports of his 
words, which are apt in forcefulness, illustration, 


232 Gipsy Smith 


and analogy, for he preaches with greater force and 
effectiveness by gesture, manners, and intonation of 
voice.” Here I met ex-President Harrison in his 
own home. I found him a courteous, high-toned 
Christian gentleman, deeply interested in all work 
for the salvation of men and of the nation. On 
returning to the vestry at the close of one of the 
services, there was an old retired minister, with 
white, flowing locks and a grave, dignified appear- 
ance, waiting for me. As I sat down in the chair, 
he put his hands on my head. I thought he was 
going to give me a father’s blessing. But to my 
surprise he began to run his fingers through my 
thick hair and to feel about for bumps. 

“Are you a phrenologist?” I said. 

“No, not quite; but I am trying to discover the 
secret of your success.” 

“Well, sir, you are feeling too high. You must 
come down here,” placing my hand upon my heart. 

I reached home on November 23d. My tour 
round the globe had occupied eight months. 


CHAPTER XXIII 
MY FATHER AND HIS TWO BROTHERS 


LET me interrupt my personal narrative for a 
little to tell my readers some things about my father 
and his two remarkable brothers that will, I think, 
interest them. 

My father, Cornelius Smith, when past his sev- 
entieth year, was still hale and hearty. He lived at 
Cambridge, and, even in the fulness of his years, 
spent most of his time in religious work. There are 
few evangelists better known in the Eastern coun- 
ties. When he goes to a place that he has not 
visited before, he always begins his first discourse 
by saying: “I want you people to know that I am 
not my son, I am his father.” 

I wrote my father’s first love-letter. This is how 
it came about. My readers will remember that my 
mother died when I was very young. My father 
married again, some time after his conversion, but 
his wife died in less than a year. When, twenty- 
two years ago, the last of his daughters (now Mrs. 
Ball) was about to get married and to leave him all 
alone in his tent, my father came to me in very dis- 
consolate mood, saying: 

“What shall I do now?” 


233 


234. Gipsy Smith 


“Will you live with me if I get married?” I said. 

“No, I'd rather not; I’ve always had a little 
corner of my own.” 3 

“Well, why don’t you get married yourself?” 
My father was forty-seven at this time, and he 
looked younger. 

“Oh, come now, whom could I marry?” 

“Well, I think I know a lady who would have 
you.” 7 3 

“Who?” 

“Mrs, Sayer.” 

My father looked both surprised and delighted. 

“How do you know that?’ he asked. 

“Well, when I was working at the Christian Mis- 
sion, Whitechapel, and you used to come to see me, 
Mrs. Sayer often came too, and she was forever 
hanging about me, for you were always in my 
neighborhood. One day I said,to her, “Do you want 
any skewers or clothes-pegs to-day, lady?’ She was 
taken aback, seemed to guess what I meant, and 
smacked me in the face. 

“Well,” said my father, “it is strange that I have 
been thinking about Mrs. Sayer too. It is some 
years since first I met her, and I’ve seen her only 
very occasionally since, but she has never been out 
of my mind.” 

“Shall I write to her then for you?” 

“Yes, I think you had better.” 

My father outlined what he desired me to say in 
proposing to Mrs. Sayer, and after I had finished 
the letter I read it to him. He interrupted me sev- 


My Father and his Two Brothers 235 


eral times, remarking, “Well, I did not tell you to 
say that, did I?” and I replied, “But that is what 
you meant, is it not?’ Soon after Mrs. Sayer, 
who at that time was a captain in the Salvation 
Army, and had been previously employed by Lord 
Shaftesbury as a Bible-woman in the East End, and 
my father were married. It has been one of the 
chief joys of my life that I had something to do 
with arranging this marriage, for it has been a most 
happy union. In the year of this marriage my 
father’s brother, Woodlock, died, and two years 
later the other brother, Bartholomew, died. “The 
Lord knew,” my father has said, “when He took 
away my dear brothers that I should feel their loss 
and feel unfit to go to meetings alone; so my wife 
was given to me. And the Lord is making us a 
great blessing. Our time is fully spent in His work, 
and wherever we go souls are saved and saints are 
blessed.” 

When my father was converted he did not know 
A from B. But by dint of much hard battling, at a 
time of life, too, when it is difficult to learn any- 
thing, he managed to read the New Testament, and 
I doubt whether anybody knows that portion of 
Scripture better than my father does. I do not know 
any preacher who can in a brief address weave in 
so many quotations from the New Testament, and 
weave them in so skilfully, so intelligently, and in 
so deeply interesting a manner. My father has an 
alert mind, and some of the illustrations in his ad- 
dresses are quaint. During my mission at the Met- 


236 Gipsy Smith 


ropolitan Tabernacle he spoke to the people briefly. 
His theme was “Christ in us and we in Christ,” and 
he said, “Some people may think that that is im- 
possible; but it is not. The other day I was walk- 
ing by the seaside at Cromer, and I picked up a 
bottle with a cork in it. I filled the bottle with the 
salt water, and, driving in the cork, I threw the 
bottle out into the sea as far as my right arm could 
send it. Turning to my wife, I said, ‘Look, the sea 
is in the bottle and the bottle is in the sea. So if 
we are Christ’s, we are in Him and He is in us.’ ” 

Before my conversion, while I was under deep 
conviction of sin, I used to pray, “O God, make me 
a good boy; I want to be a good boy; make me 
feel Iam saved.”’ In my young foolishness of heart 
I was keen on feeling. My father had heard me 
pray, and had tried to meet my difficulty, but with- 
out success. However, it chanced that one after- 
noon we were invited to drink tea at the house of a 
friend in a village where the three brothers were 
holding a mission. Attached to the house was a 
beautiful large garden, containing many heavily 
laden cherry-trees. My father was as merry and 
whole-hearted as a boy, and not ashamed of liking 
cherries, and we all went out to pick the fruit. 
Presently I was amazed to observe my father gaz- 
ing up steadfastly at the cherries and saying, in a 
loud, urgent voice, as he kept the inside pocket of 
his coat wide open, “Cherries, come down and fill 
my pocket! Come down, I say. I want you.” I 
watched his antics for a moment or two, not know- 


My Father and his Two Brothers 237 


ing what to make of this aberration. At length I 
said: 

“Daddy, it’s no use telling the cherries to come 
down and fill your pocket. You must pluck them 
off the tree.” 

“My son,” said my father, in pleased and earnest 
tones, “that is what I want you to understand. You 
are making the mistake that I was making just now. 
God has offered you a great gift. You know what 
it is, and you know that you want it. But you will 
not reach forth your hand to take it.” 

My father was frequently engaged by a gentle- 
man in Norwich, Mr. George Chamberlain, to do 
evangelistic work in the vicinity. At the time of 
this story there was an exhibition of machinery in 
connection with the agricultural show then being 
held in the old city. Mr. Chamberlain gave my 
father a ticket of admission to it, saying, “Go, Cor- 
nelius, see what there is to be seen; it will interest 
you. I’m coming down myself very soon.” When 
Mr. Chamberlain reached the ground he found my 
father standing on a machine, with a great crowd, 
to whom he was preaching the gospel, gathered 
round him. He gazed upon the spectacle with de- 
light and astonishment. When my father came 
down from this pulpit, Mr. Chamberlain said to 
him: 

“Well, Cornelius, what led you to address the 
people—without any previous arrangement, too, 
and without consulting the officials? I sent you 
here to examine the exhibits.” 


238 Gipsy Smith 


“That’s all right,” said my father; “but the fact 
is I looked round at all the latest inventions, and I 
did not see one that even claimed to take away the 
guilt and the power of sin from men’s hearts. I 
knew of something that could do this, and I thought 
these people should be told about it. There were 
such a lot of them, too, that I thought it was a very 
good opportunity.” 

My father was on one occasion preaching in the 
open air to a great crowd at Leytonstone. A coster 
passing by in his donkey-cart shouted out: “Go it, 
old party; you'll get ’arf a crown for that job!” 
Father stopped his address for a moment, looked at 
the coster, and said, quietly, “No, young man, you 
are wrong. My Master never gives half-crowns 
away. He gives whole ones. ‘Be thou faithful 
unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.’ ” 
The coster and his ‘‘moke’”’ passed on. 

I have said before that the three gipsy brothers, 
after their conversion, always travelled the country 
together. Wherever they went they never lost an 
opportunity of preaching. And their preaching was 
very effective, for the people, knowing them well, 
contrasted their former manner of life—tying, 
drinking, pilfering, swearing—with the sweet and 
clean life they now led, and saw that the three big, 
godless gipsy men ‘had been with Jesus. They be- 
held a new creation. When they came to a village 
the three big men—my father was six feet, broad in 
proportion, and he was the smallest of them—ac- 
companied by their children, took their stand in the 


My Father and his Two Brothers 239 


most public place they could find and began their 
service. The country folk for miles around used 
to come in to attend the meetings of the three con- 
verted gipsy brothers. Each of them had his special 
gift and special line of thought. Uncle Woodlock, 
who always spoke first, had taught himself to read, 
and of the three was the deepest theologian—if I 
may use so pretentious a word of a poor gipsy man. 
He was very strong and clear on the utter ruin of 
the heart by the fall, and on redemption by the blood 
of Christ, our substitute. Over the door of his cot- 
tage at Leytonstone he had printed the words, 
“When I see the blood I will pass over.” It was 
very characteristic. 

After Woodlock had made an end of speaking, 
the three brothers sang a hymn, my father accom- 
panying on his famous “‘hallelujah fiddle.” Uncle 
Bartholomew never to the day of his death could 
read, but his wife could spell out the words of the 
New Testament, and in this way he learned by heart 
text after text for his gospel addresses. His method 
was to repeat these texts, say a few words about 
each, and conclude with an anecdote. My father 
came last. It was his part to gather up and focus 
all that had been said, and to make the application. 
He had a wonderful power in the management of 
these simple audiences, and often melted them into 
tears by the artless pathos of his discourses. But 
the most powerful qualification these evangelists 
had for their work was the undoubted and tremen- 
dous change that had been wrought in their lives. 


240 Gipsy Smith 


Their sincerity and sweetness were so transparent. 
It was as clear as daylight that God had laid His 
hand upon these men, and had renewed their hearts. 

Until the marriage of which I have told in this 
chapter, my father lived in his wagon and tent, and 
still went up and down the country, though not so 
much as he had done in his younger days. I told 
him that he could not ask Mrs. Sayer to come and 
live with him in a wagon. She had never been 
used to that. He must gointoa house. I suggested 
that he should buy a bit of land, and build a cot- 
tage on it. “What!” he said, “put my hard-earned 
money into dirt!’ However, he came round to my 
view. The three brothers each bought a strip of 
territory at Leytonstone and erected three wooden 
cottages. But they stood the cottages on wheels! 

Uncle Woodlock was not so fortunate in his wife 
as the other two brothers. She was not a Christian 
woman, and she had no respect and no sympathy 
for religious work. When Woodlock came home 
from his meetings his wife would give him her 
Opinion, at great length and with great volubility, 
concerning him and his preaching. The poor man 
would listen with bowed head and in perfect silence, 
and, when she had finished her harangue, he would 
say, “Now, my dear, we will have a verse,” and he 
would begin to sing, ‘““Must Jesus Bear the Cross 
Alone?” or, “I’m Not Ashamed to Own My Lord!” 
or, “My Jesus, I love Thee.” Uncle Barthy’s wife 
was a good, Christian woman, and is still on this 
side of Jordan, adorning the doctrine of the gospel. 


My Father and his Two Brothers 241 


When I was conducting the simultaneous mission 
campaign at the Metropolitan Tabernacle she came 
to hear me. The building was crowded, and the 
policeman would not let her pass the door. “Oh, 
but I must get in,” she said; “it’s my nephew who 
is preaching here. I nursed him, and I’m going 
to hear him.” And she was not baffled. 

The brothers were not well up in etiquette, though 
in essentials they always behaved like the perfect 
gentlemen they were. They were drinking tea one 
afternoon at a well-to-do house. A lady asked 
Uncle Woodlock to pass her a tart. “Certainly, 
madam,” said he, and lifting a tart with his fingers 
off the plate handed it to her. She accepted it with 
a gracious smile. When his mistake was after- 
wards pointed out to him, and he was told what 
he ought to have done, he took no offence, but he 
could not understand it at all. He kept on answer- 
ing: “Why, she did not ask me for the plateful; 
she asked for only one!” 

Woodlock and Bartholomew have now gone to be 
for ever with the Lord who redeemed them, and 
whom they loved with all the strength of their 
warm, simple, noble hearts. 

Uncle Woodlock was the first to go home. The 
three brothers were together conducting a mission 
at Chingford in March, 1882. At the close, Wood- 
lock was detained for a few minutes in earnest con- 
versation with an anxious soul. My father and 
Bartholomew went on to take the train for Strat- 
ford, leaving Woodlock to make haste after them. 


242 Gipsy Smith 


Woodlock, in the darkness, ran with great force 
against a wooden post in the pathway. It was some 
time before he was discovered lying on the ground 
groaning in agony. To those who came to his help 
he said, “I have got my death-blow; my work on 
earth is done, but all is bright above; and I am 
going home.” His injuries were very severe, and 
though his suffering was great, he never once lost 
consciousness. My father stayed by him all night, 
while Uncle Barthy returned to Stratford to tell 
the families about the accident. When morning 
dawned, Woodlock’s wife came to see him, and then 
he was removed to his own little home in Leyton- 
stone, where he breathed his last. Within an hour 
of his departure he turned to his weeping relatives, 
and said: “I am going to heaven through the blood 
of the Lamb. Do you love and serve Jesus? Tell 
the people wherever you go about Him. Be faith- 
ful: speak to them about the blood that cleanses.” 
Then, gathering himself up, he said: “What is this 
that steals upon my frame? Is it death?’ and 
quickly added: 


“Tf this be death, I soon shall be 
From every sin and sorrow free. 
I shall the King of Glory see. 
All is well!” 


He had been ill for twenty-eight hours. He lies 
buried in Leytonstone church-yard, awaiting the 
resurrection morn. He was followed to his grave 


My Father and his Two Brothers 243 


by his sorrowing relatives and over fifty gipsies, 
while four hundred friends lined the approach to 
the church and burying-place. The parish church 
had a very unusual congregation that day, for the 
gipsy people pressed in with the others, and as the 
vicar read the burial service, hearts were deeply 
touched and tears freely flowed. At the grave, the 
two surviving brothers spoke of the loved one they 
had lost, and told the people of the grace of God 
which had redeemed them and their brother, and 
made them fit for the inheritance of the saints in 
light. Woodlock was a hale man, only forty-eight 
years of age. 

Two years later Uncle Barthy followed his 
brother Woodlock into the kingdom of glory. He 
died in his own little home at Leytonstone, but most 
of the days of his illness were spent in Mildmay 
Cottage Hospital. All that human skill could devise 
was done for him, but he gradually grew weaker, 
and asked to be taken to his own home. A few 
hours before he passed into the presence of God he 
called his wife and children around him, and be- 
sought each of them to meet him in heaven. In his 
last moments he was heard to say, “There! I was 
almost gone then—they had come for me!” When 
asked who had come, he replied, “My Saviour.” 
Turning to his wife, he said: “You are clinging to 
me; you will not let me go; and I am sure you do 
not want me to stay here in all this pain. I must 
go home; I cannot stay here. God will look after 
you, He knows your trouble, and He will carry 


244 Gipsy Smith 
you through.” The poor woman was expecting a 
baby in a few months. My father tried to comfort 
her, and to teach her resignation to the will of God. 

“Tell the Lord,’ he said, “that you desire His 
will to be done.” 

She said, “Oh, it is so hard!’ 

“Yes,” answered my father, “but the Lord is 
going to take Bartholomew to Himself. It will be 
better for you if you can bring yourself to submit 
with resignation to His will.” 

Those gathered round the bedside then knelt 
down. The dying saint sat up in bed with his hands 
clasped, looking at his wife, while she poured out 
her soul before the Lord and told Him her trouble. 
God gave her the victory. She rose from her knees 
exclaiming, “I can now say, “Thy will be done! ” 
She gave her husband a farewell kiss. Immediately 
he clapped his hands for joy and said: “Now I can 
go, can’t I? Iam ready to be offered up. The time 
of my departure is at hand. Lord, let Thy servant 
depart in peace. Receive my spirit, for Jesus’ 
sake!’ And so Bartholomew’s soul passed into the 
heavenly places. The whole bed-chamber was filled 
with glory. Uncle Barthy rests in Leytonstone 
churchyard beside his brother Woodlock. In death 
they are not divided. 

It is strange, rather, that my father, the eldest of 
the three brothers, should live the longest. It is 
seventeen years since the death of Uncle Barthy. 
My father is like a tree planted by the rivers of 
water, still bringing forth fruit. When I go to see 


My Father and his Two Brothers 245 


him I kneel at his feet, as I used to do when I was 
a boy, and say: “Daddy, give me your blessing. All 
that I am I owe, under God, to the beautiful life 
you lived in the old gipsy wagon.” And with a 
radiant, heavenly smile on that noble old face, he 
answers, with tears of joy in his eyes, “God bless 
you, my son! I have never had but one wish for 
you, and that is that you should be good.” Some 
time ago, when I was conducting a mission at Tor- 
quay, I talked to the people so much about my 
father that they invited him to conduct a mission 
among them. And then they wrote to me: “We 
love the son, but we think we love the father more.” 
They had found that all that I had said about my 
father was true. 


CHAPTER XXIV 
LONDON, MANCHESTER, AND EDINBURGH 


BEFORE setting out on my trip round the world 
I had made a promise to the Rev. Andrew Mearns, 
Secretary of the London Congregational Union, 
that I would undertake three months’ evangelistic 
work in the metropolis. Accordingly, on the 17th 
of December, Mr. B. F. Byrom, who was fixing my 
engagements at the time, accompanied me to Lon- 
don to settle the final arrangements with Mr. 
Mearns. When we entered the Memorial Hall on 
the morning of the 18th Mr. Mearns handed me a 
telegram. I opened it and read these words: “Mrs. 
Smith seriously ill. Come home at once.” When I 
left my wife the night before she seemed to be in 
good health, busy making preparations for a happy 
Christmas with us all at home together. I returned 
to Manchester at once. She had been seized with 
dreadful hemorrhages, which, beginning at ten 
o’clock on the night of the 17th, had continued at 
intervals till eleven o’clock on the evening of the 
18th. The doctors, on leaving me at three o’clock 
in the morning of the 19th, said that she was prac- 
tically a corpse—that it was simply impossible for 

246 


London, Manchester, and Edinburgh 247 


her to live. When they returned next morning and 
saw how greatly improved she was they said, “This 
is a resurrection.” The prayers offered for her 
and for me by hundreds of Christians all over the 
country had been answered. Slowly but surely she 
regained her health, though it was five or six months 
before she was quite well again. 

My work for Mr. Mearns in London called me 
away from my wife early in January. I am not 
skilled in the formation of diplomatic circumlocu- 
tions, and therefore I must say frankly that I do 
not look back upon this work in London with any 
real satisfaction. I was sent to several churches 
which were practically deserted. Indeed, my work 
was mostly among weak causes—in a few instances 
causes without a pastor or any organized band of 
workers. And most of the missions were only for 
a week. It took one quite a week to make oneself 
felt in these localities, and just when one was be- 
ginning to get a good hold of the people one had to 
leave and go elsewhere. Good was done, I am sure, 
and in every case before the week was finished we 
had crowded congregations. But it was surely 
unwise to send me to chapels which were without 
pastors, because there was no one to look after any 
converts that God gave us. In this campaign I 
worked at ten or eleven places. The right plan 
would have been the selection of six or seven of the 
strongest churches and a fortnight’s mission in each. 
In a live church, with a capable minister and a 
competent band of workers, something great might 


248 Gipsy Smith 


have been accomplished. To send a missioner to 
some deserted, disorganized chapel, situated perhaps 
in a godless wilderness, and then expect valuable 
results in a week is like sending a man to gather 
apples in the Sahara desert. 

In this three months’ campaign there was a short 
break which I spent at Manchester. Dr. McLaren 
had taken the keenest interest in my trip round the 
world, and as soon as I returned home I went to 
see him. Immediately he said to me, “I want you 
to have a mission in my church. I cannot commit 
myself yet, for I have not consulted my office- 
bearers but I do not want you to fix up any engage- 
ments for the week February toth to 17th, 1895, 
until you hear from me.” ‘These words quite took 
my breath away. I was overwhelmed. I did not 
know what to say. The honor that Dr. McLaren 
proposed to do me was too great. There had never 
before been a mission in Union Chapel. When I 
could find utterance I stammered out: “Oh, Dr. 
McLaren, I can never conduct a mission in your 
church. I can never stand in your pulpit.” “Non- 
sense!” said Dr. McLaren, in his characteristically 
emphatic and decisive manner. “You must. I 
won't listen to that sort of thing. Keep these dates 
clear until I consult my office-bearers.” I felt I must 
give in. 

The formal invitation from Dr. McLaren and the 
deacons of Union Chapel reached me about the 
end of November. Never did a church enter with 
more thoroughness into the necessary preparatory 


London, Manchester, and Edinburgh 249 


work. The Rev. J. E. Roberts, B.A., B.D., the 
co-pastor, superintended the organizing arrange- 
ments with great skill, and toiled day and night 
for the success of the mission. He was ably sup- 
ported by Mr. Alister McLaren, Dr. McLaren’s son, 
and many other workers. Thousands of visits were 
made to the people. I was told that in three days 
a hundred ladies made over six thousand visits. I 
know that the workers called at our house three 
times during the week of the mission urging my 
wife and myself to attend. We faithfully promised 
to do so. Thousands of printed invitations to the 
services were issued, all of them signed by Dr. Mc- 
Laren and Mr. Roberts, a fact which lent weight 
and power. 

The mission opened on Sunday, February roth. 
Dr. McLaren preached in the morning from Acts 
ix. 31, and at the conclusion of his discourse spoke 
thus: 

“It has been to me a very sore trial and a very 
bitter pill that the condition of my health withdraws 
me almost entirely from active participation in this 
work, to which I have been looking forward with 
so much pleasure. I hope that instead of my with- 
drawal, which, as most of you know, is rendered 
imperative by medical advice, frightening anybody, 
it will rather, if I may appeal to your affection, 
make you all feel the more need for you to gather 
round my dear friend, Gipsy Smith, who is going to 
conduct these services. I have the fullest confidence 
in him and in his work, and the warmest anticipa- 


250 Gipsy Smith 


tions of large spiritual blessings to flow from the 
services, I appeal especially to the members of my 
own church and congregation, that they will do 
what they can by their sympathy, their attendance, 
and above all by their earnest prayers, to make this 
coming week a week long to be remembered in the 
history of this church.” 

My testing-time came in the afternoon. I had 
had a sore conflict with the Evil One throughout 
the whole of the preceding week. The tempter 
whispered: “Your methods will never do for Union 
Chapel. Do you know that that is the most brainy 
and the most cultured congregation in England? 
These people have listened to the prince of preachers 
for many years. They have never had a mission 
such as you propose to conduct in their church. 
They do not understand it. Don’t you try your 
methods there. They will not have them. If you 
insist on the methods that you adopt in other places 
the people will not come and listen to you. You 
will have the church to yourself.” This struggle 
with Satan was very real. My heart and mind were 
sore distressed, but God gave me the victory. As 
I proceeded from the vestry into the church, I 
paused for a moment on the first step of the pulpit 
stairs and said to God: “Oh, my Lord, Thou hast 
given me all I am and all I have. Thou hast set 
Thine approval on my poor, weak methods. I place 
myself and my methods in Thy hands. In this 
church I will be true to what I believe Thou hast 
been pleased to use.” Throughout this mission I 


London, Manchester, and Edinburgh 251 


adopted my ordinary style of discourse and of deal- 
ing with people, and I never heard one sound of 
disapproval. The whole church was with me. 

People from all parts of Lancashire, who had for 
long been desirous of hearing me, but had suspected 
something sensational, thronged into Manchester to 
attend these meetings, for were they not in Dr. Mc- 
Laren’s church, and did not that mean that they 
must be safe? Many Church of England people, 
too, waited upon my ministry. In the inquiry- 
rooms ten or twelve Anglican churches were repre- 
sented. Altogether six hundred people professed 
to give themselves to God. 

The last Sunday was a crowning triumph. So 
great were the throngs that the roads were blocked, 
and even the trams were brought to a standstill. 
The conductors were shouting: “This way for Dr. 
McLaren and Gipsy Smith.” Alister McLaren 
went out to pacify the people, who were becoming 
somewhat tumultuous. He lost his hat, and was 
himself unable to get into the church. 

A remarkable scene took place at the closing ser- 
vice on Monday night. Turning to Mr. Roberts, 
the co-pastor, who sat beside me, I said: “I am go- 
ing to close now.” “Wait a minute,” he said: “there 
are others who ought to come out.” I asked the 
people to be seated, and then said: “I know some 
of you are saying something like this to yourselves, 
‘I owe all I am to Dr. McLaren—all that I possess 
of mental grasp and spiritual desire. He is my 
pastor. Ihave grown up under him. Is it quite fair 


252 Gipsy Smith 


to him that when I settle the most momentous ques- 
tion of my life I should do it at the invitation of a 
stranger? Is it loyal to my pastor?’ I respect that 
feeling. I want you to be loyal to Dr. McLaren. 
But will you remember for one moment at whose 
invitation I am here? It was Dr. McLaren who 
brought me here. He was anxious about you. 
That was why he asked me to come and help him to 
beseech you in Christ’s stead to be reconciled unto 
God. I do not think anything would gladden Dr. 
McLaren’s heart more than to learn that in this 
mission, which he arranged for you, the desire of his 
heart had been accomplished. He is ill. You know 
it. Do you think that anything could be a greater 
joy and comfort to him than the receipt of a tele- 
gram saying that you had at last intelligently and 
honestly given yourself to Jesus Christ?” In less 
than five minutes fifty of the brightest and best 
young people in the congregation walked into the 
inquiry-room. 

So ended, as far as I was concerned, one of the 
most remarkable missions of my life. I have al- 
ways felt that this campaign in Dr. McLaren’s 
church set the hall-mark upon me as an evangelist. 
I have needed no further recommendation to many 
ministers than that I have had a mission at Union 
Chapel. Asa consequence I have reached hundreds 
of people who from ignorance have had no sym- 
pathy with evangelistic methods. The mere fact 
that I have worked with Dr. McLaren has induced 
them in the first place to come and hear me, and 


London, Manchester, and Edinburgh 253 


afterwards, in many cases, to take their place among 
my closest friends. 

During this year I began to receive invitations 
for mission work from Free Church councils. At 
Bilston, upon the invitation of the local council, I 
conducted a ten days’ campaign at the Wesleyan 
Church, the church in which Dr. Berry afterwards 
died. I am told that the doctor whose funeral the 
great preacher was attending dated his decision for 
Christ from my mission in Wolverhampton. But 
this is anticipating. My host at Bilston, Mr. Bus- 
sey, was a very excellent man. Of his nine children, 
seven passed through the inquiry-room. The eldest 
son is now a local preacher in Bilston, and conducts 
missions with blessed results. Among the other 
converts was the organist. 

I had an amusing experience at Swansea. At the 
beginning of my career as an evangelist a young 
Welshman taught me a verse of a Welsh hymn. At 
one of my Swansea meetings, making the most of 
my knowledge of Welsh, I sang this verse. It was 
the only verse I knew. But, when I had started the 
people at hymn-singing, I could not stop them. My 
Welsh accent must have been good, because I was 
asked by some zealous patriots if I would preach in 
Welsh. ‘No,’ I said, reflectively, “I think I prefer 
English.” 

At the close of 1895, I worked for six weeks 
in Edinburgh in connection with various Free 
Churches. 

I heard the Rev. Andrew Murray, the well-known 


254 Gipsy Smith 


South African, at the Synod Hall, Edinburgh. At 
his meetings I made my first acquaintance with a 
hymn which I have often since used with great 
effect—“Moment by Moment.” 

I stayed during part of my visit with the Rev. 
Thomas Crerar, whose wife is the sister of Profes- 
sor Henry Drummond, and I became very friendly 
with their little baby girl. She was just learning to 
speak, and called me “Gippo.”’ She spoke of sugar 
as “lulu.” She would tap the sideboard door with 
her little hands and:say, “Lulu, lulu.” But neither 
her parents nor her nurse would let her have any. 
However, she completely overcame me, and when 
we two were alone, I used to give my little sweet- 
heart a small piece of “lulu.” Some weeks after 
my departure from Edinburgh, I sent Mr. Crerar 
a photograph of myself. When baby saw it, she 
clapped her fat, chubby, little hands, screaming 
with delight, “Gippo, lulu, lulu!’ “You rascal!” 
wrote Mr. Crerar to me. “We have found you 
out.” 

When I first visited Edinburgh and stayed with 
Rev. George D. Low, M.A., his youngest boy, a 
little fellow in kilts, was taught to pray, “God bless 
Gipsy Smith.” He was still a small boy and in the 
same garb when I returned, and in the meanwhile 
he had kept up that simple prayer. He had become 
fired with ambition as a preacher, and was accus- 
tomed to hold forth in his nursery. My little friend 
prepared his sermons regularly on Friday. The 
maids and his mother formed his usual Sunday- 


London, Manchester, and Edinburgh 255 


evening congregation. He stood on a table with 
a clothes-horse, covered with a white sheet, in front 
of him. Only his little head was to be seen peep- 
ing out above this pulpit. The collection at the 
door of the nursery were for my Gipsy Wagon 
Mission. On the occasion of my second visit he 
had a meeting on the Saturday—a soirée. There 
was a large attendance. The little minister said, in 
a stern, solemn tone: “I notice that when I have a 
soirée, I can get my church filled; but you do not 
come to the preaching on Sunday.” His text on 
the Sunday evening was, “It is I. Be not afraid,” 
and a beautiful little sermon he preached. He said 
that “when Jesus comes to us it is not to frighten 
us, it is to take away the frightening, and it is to 
bring to us a sort of feeling that makes us feel 
sure, sure.” 

The closing meeting of this Edinburgh campaign 
was for ministers, workers, and inquirers, and was 
held in Free St. George’s (Dr. Whyte’s). There 
was an overflowing congregation, at least two-thirds 
of which consisted of young converts. Dr. Whyte 
presided. I can never forget Dr. Whyte’s smile. 
It was so obviously the effluence of a rich, noble, 
generous soul. It suggested a quarter of an acre 
of sunshine! 


CHAPTER XXV 


MY FIFTH VISIT TO AMERICA 


I saAtLeD for New York on New Year’s Day, 
1896. I had arranged to go straight to Boston and 
conduct a mission there. This was the only fixed 
item on my programme. I felt that this would be 
an important mission, and that I ought not to en- 
tangle myself with promises of other work until I 
saw that God was going to do by our hands in that 
city. 

The mission was held in the People’s Temple, at 
the time the largest Protestant church in the city, 
seating two thousand five hundred people, and pos- 
sessing school premises which could be added to the 
church, bringing up the accommodation to three 
thousand. Mr. James Boyd Brady was the pastor. 
As I was driving to the house of my host I passed 
the People’s Temple, and I observed a great placard 
on the building, announcing me as “Gipsy Smith, 
the greatest evangelist in the world.” My first 
words to the congregation that greeted me at my 
first service were to disclaim any responsibility for 
the announcement in front of the church: “I do not 
feel that I am the greatest evangelist in the world, 
and you do not believe it. That being so, we will 
have it taken down.” I believe in advertising, but 

256 





THREE GENERATIONS. 
My Father, Myself. and My Younyer Son. 


"i ee ' 


¥i A, 
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eo 


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on ay 
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My Fifth Visit to America PASS 


the placard in question was a ridiculous and undig- 
nified extravagance of statement. I felt hurt and 
annoyed as soon as I saw it. My repudiation of it 
did not a little to win my way into the esteem and 
affection of the Bostonians. It soon became mani- 
fest that a blessed work of grace was being done. 
The mission was the talk of the city. Those who 
had known Boston the longest said they had never 
seen anything like it. The Boston papers wrote 
about our work in their best style. I was described 
as the greatest of my kind on earth, “a spiritual 
phenomenon, an intellectual prodigy, and a musical 
and oratorical paragon.” It seems that in appear- 
ance I at once suggested an Italian impresario, that 
in costume I would have made a good double to 
Jean de Reské, and that my language might serve 
as a model for a High Churchman! 

Several incidents of this mission are, I think, 
worthy of record. On the morning after the first 
meeting [ was aroused from sleep very early. I 
was told that there was at the door a man in a very 
excited state who wished to see me. I requested 
that he should be brought to my room. He rushed 
in, waving wildly a copy of the Protestant Stand- 
ard, which had devoted half a page to our meeting. 
“What have you come to Boston for?” he de- 
manded, angrily. “Can you not leave me alone?” 
I perceived that my visitor was an old Pottery man, 
who years before had heard me preach many times. 
He had deserted his wife and children, and was now 
living a very sinful life. In the interval, during 


258 Gipsy Smith 


moments of acute shame and remorse, he had writ- 
ten to his wife in the hope of finding her, but his 
efforts had been unsuccessful. Either he received 
no reply or his letters were returned, and he did 
not know whether she was dead or alive. His con- 
science seemed to tell him that I had come to Boston 
to discover and accuse him. “Why can you not 
leave me alone?” he asked. “Can you not stay at 
home?” This man had not been at the meeting. 
But as he was returning from night duty at a large 
restaurant, he had come across a copy of the Prot- 
estant Standard, and had learned that I was in the 
city. I spoke to him faithfully about the old days, 
his present condition, his sin and want, and he 
promised to come to the next meeting. To my joy 
I observed him among the first who came forward 
to give themselves to Christ. It was a sincere, ab- 
solute surrender, a real conversion. He gave me 
the name of his wife’s parents and the address of 
the house where he knew her to be living last. I 
wrote to my brother-in-law, Councillor Ball, of 
Hanley, giving him all the particulars I could 
gather. He published an announcement in the local 
papers and set the police at work, with the result 
that the wife and family were found. After years 
of separation she and her children crossed the At- 
lantic to find the husband and father. She was 
welcomed with all the old love and the new Iove that 
had come to him from the Lord. 

One night, going to church, I jumped into a car. 
Sitting beside me was a lady with a pair of opera- 


My Fifth Visit to America 259 


glasses in her hand. She was not going to church. 
People do not take opera-glasses to church. I sup- 
pose they think that they see enough of the parson 
without them. Presently a lady on her way to my 
meeting entered the car and said to me, “What are 
you going to preach about to-night, Mr. Smith?” 
“Wait and see,” I answered. If you tell the people 
what you are going to talk about, they can fortify 
themselves. Glorious surprises are what we need 
in our preaching more and more. Some men will 
never be saved unless they are taken off their guard. 
However, I said to my questioner, “We shall have 
nearly three thousand people to-night, and whether 
we preach or not we shall certainly pray. And the 
burden of our prayer will be, ‘O Lord, send down 
upon us the Holy Ghost.’” “Sir, sir,’ said the 
lady with the opera-glasses “are you not afraid 
something will happen if you pray like that?” “Oh, 
not at all,” I said, “not afraid; we hope something 
will happen. We are going to church because we 
expect something will happen.” 

When the month was finished it was evident that 
we could not stop the work. It would have been 
a sin so to do. Fortunately, having a presentiment 
that this was going to be a great and noble mission, 
I had kept myself free from other engagements. 
The four weeks extended into seven. On the fifth 
Sunday morning I preached to a crowded congrega- 
tion on “Be filled with the Spirit,” and at the close 
of the sermon a memorable,.and indeed indescrib- 
able, scene was witnessed. Dr. Brady rose, and, in 


260 Gipsy Smith 


tones of deep emotion, said, “The sermon this morn- 
ing has been for my own soul. I feel my need of 
the experience of which our brother has been speak- 
ing, and I am going down to that communion-rail 
for myself. I am going there to seek my Pentecost. 
I shall never be able to rear the young souls that 
have been brought to God during this mission un- 
less I am filled with the Spirit.’ Presently between 
two hundred and three hundred people from all 
parts of the church were kneeling at the commu- 
nion-rail on both sides of their pastor. When we 
dispersed we all felt that we had seen strange things 
that day. 

During this week I addressed the divinity stu- 
dents of the Methodist College on “Soul-winning.”’ 
I had also the distinction of being invited to speak 
to the students of Harvard University, an invita- 
tion which is only given on very rare occasions. 
The one hour of the day I was free was from 6.30 
to 7.30, the dinner hour of the students, but they 
were willing to set that aside in order to hear me, 
and we had a happy meeting. 

As a result of the mission eight hundred persons 
were received into the church on probation. I was 
three times asked to become pastor in succession 
to Dr. Brady when his term of the pastorate was 
fulfilled. The people were willing to free me during 
three or four months every year for evangelistic 
work, to give me an assistant and a handsome sal- 
ary. But I did not see my way to accept their offer. 

My next mission was held in the Metropolitan 


My Fifth Visit to America 261 


Episcopal Church at Washington, of which Dr. 
Hugh Johnstone was then pastor. When the Presi- 
dent of the United States is a Methodist he attends 
this church, as do also almost all the Methodist 
Congressmen, Dr. Milburn, the blind man eloquent, 
and chaplain to the Senate, is also a member of 
the Metropolitan congregation. Dr. Milburn and I 
became good friends. I chanced to mention in the 
course of an address that I was not ordained. At 
once the old man rose, and, placing his hands upon 
my shoulders, said, “I will ordain you—without a 
question.” 

Dr. Milburn told me the interesting story of how 
he became chaplain to the Senate. As a young man 
he had been preaching in the far West, and was 
returning to the East on one of the river steamers. 
Among the passengers were a number of Senators 
and members of the House of Representatives who 
spent their time in gambling and in fearful swear- 
ing. Dr. Milburn (Mr. Milburn he then was) was 
invited to conduct a religious service in the saloon 
on Sunday morning, and the Congressmen were 
among his congregation. He rebuked them sternly 
and faithfully for their gambling and swearing, and 
asked if their conduct was such as became men who 
were the representatives and the lawmakers of the 
nation. After the service Dr. Milburn retreated to 
his cabin. The men whom he had rebuked were 
wild fellows from the South and West. He ex- 
pected every moment to receive a visit from some of 
them, bearing a challenge. He had reckoned on this 


262 Gipsy Smith 


likelihood before he had preached his sermon. 
Presently there was a knock at the door. “Here it 
is,’ said Dr. Milburn to himself; “sure enough, 
what I expected. They have come to challenge 
me. I expect I shall get a severe handling. May 
God help me to be faithful.” Several tall, awkward, 
fierce-looking men stalked in. But there was no 
fight in them. They ranged themselves up before 
the doctor, meekly confessed that they had deserved 
his rebuke, thanked him for his sermon, and asked 
him if he would allow them to nominate him as 
chaplain to the Senate. Dr. Milburn was as de- 
lighted as he was surprised, and readily consented 
to be nominated. Thus he was elected to the post 
which he has filled with such conspicuous ability and 
dignity for nearly sixty years. 

Dr. Johnstone entered into the work most heart- 
ily. He sank himself entirely in order that I might 
have the best possible chance. An amusing and 
somewhat awkward incident occurred. I was 
preaching on “Lifting the lame man at the gate of 
the Temple.’”’ The church has no pulpit, only an 
open rostrum, with not even a rail in front. “Tf,” 
I said, “you want to lift anybody, you must stand 
on solid ground yourself,” and thereupon I stepped 
off the platform, falling a distance of three or four 
feet. I flatter myself that I have always been rather 
quick in extricating myself from an awkward situ- 
ation, so after I had risen I said to the people, “That 
was not as solid as I thought. You are witness to 
this, that I fall sometimes, but’”—marching quietly 


My Fifth Visit to America 263 


back to the rostrum—“I get up again.” Next day 
a Washington paper stated that Gipsy Smith illus- 
trated his own sermons. The mission lasted for 
three weeks. Every night the communion-rail was 
crowded. It was a very pleasant thing to see 
eminent doctors, businessmen, and Congressmen 
kneeling by the side of the anxious inquirers, en- 
couraging and directing them. 

I was taken by my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Wash- 
burn, to Mount Vernon to see the room in which 
Washington died, and the tomb in which he is laid. 
At the sepulchre we came across an old colored man 
who had formerly been a slave. Mr. Washburn 
asked him if he had read about Gipsy Smith, the 
evangelist. 

“Oh yes!” 

“Well,” said Mr. Washburn, pointing to me, 
“that is the man.” 

“Oh, is that the man?” inquired the old negro. 
Whereupon he came up to me and said, “My young 
brudder, I loves de Lord, too!’ 

“That is right!” 

“T preaches, too.” 

“Good!” 

“T preaches nearly every Sunday to my people:” 

“T hope you have a good time?” 

“Oh yes, I have, and let me tell you this—when 
next you preaches just you give the people what 
they need, not what they axes for.” 

For the second time I took a journey across the 
continent to Denver and preached to great crowds 


264 Gipsy Smith 


in the Colosseum, a building seated for between 
three and four thousand people. Everywhere I 
found striking and enduring results of my former 
mission there. Converts were standing well, and 
many were good workers in the churches. I was 
the guest of my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. 

The feature of the mission was the restoration of 
a large number of backsliders. Many persons had 
come out to Denver from the Eastern States with 
their certificate of church membership in their 
pockets, but they had never produced them and 
had gradually drifted away from church connection. 

I can tell one or two good little stories about this 
American tour. At Boston I lived with a couple 
whose only child was a little boy who slept in a cot 
in his parents’ bedroom. In the night he fell out of 
bed, and at once his two loving parents, hearing his 
cry, jumped up to place him in his cot again, and 
met over his prostrate form. At breakfast his 
father teased him about this accident. He said, 
“Johnnie, do you know why you fell out of bed last 
night ?” 

“No, father, I don’t.” 

“Well, the reason is this: you slept too near to 
where you get out.” 

The youngster received this explanation in si- 
lence. Pondering deeply for a few minutes, he sud- 
denly exclaimed, “Father, the reason you gave for 
my falling out of bed last night was not the right 
one. I know why I fell out.” 

“Well, my son, why did you?” 


My Fifth Visit to America 265 


“Because I slept too near where I got in.” 

When addressing young converts I always draw 
a moral from this story. If they desire to remain 
in their Christian life let them get well in. 

Mrs. Margaret Bottome, the founder of the 
King’s Daughters, during this visit told me a story 
which illustrates the same point. She was walking 
along the front at a seaside place. A young friend 
enjoying himself in a small boat beckoned to her 
and asked if she would like a sail. Mrs. Bottome 
said, “Yes,” and the boat was brought in to the 
side. Mrs. Bottome, in essaying to step in, touched 
the boat with her left foot and at once it skidded off 
some distance into the water. Back again the young 
fellow rowed. This time Mrs. Bottome touched the 
boat with her right foot and again it sped off some 
distance. When the youth brought his boat along- 
side the third time, he exclaimed to Mrs. Bottome, 
“Why don’t you come in, all of you?” 

If young converts wish to maintain their religious 
life strong, fresh, and secure, they must throw the 
whole of themselves into it; they must hold nothing 
back. 

I met Miss Fanny Crosby, the well-known hymn- 
writer, at New York. Many of her compositions 
appear in the Free-Church Mission Hymnal, but 
her identity is there disguised by her married name, 
Mrs. F. J. Van Alstyne. Miss Crosby is seventy 
years of age, a very tiny woman, and quite blind. 
At one of my meetings, sitting on the platform be- 
side me, she heard me sing a hymn of hers: 


266 Gipsy Smith 


“Like a bird on the deep, far away from its nest, 
I wandered, my Saviour, from Thee, | 
But Thy dear loving voice called me home to Thy 
breast, 
And I knew there was welcome for me.” 


When I had finished Miss Crosby said: “Brother 
Smith, I did not know there was as much in that 
song. You have broken me all up.” Speaking 
about her blindness, she said, “I would not see with 
these natural eyes if I might, because I should miss 
much that I already see.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


SOME FRESH STORIES ABOUT 
PETER MACKENZIE 


I REACHED England again on the 18th of May, 
1896. From that date until September, 1897, when 
I began my work as the first missioner of the Na- 
tional Free Church Council, I was occupied in con- 
ducting brief campaigns in different parts of Eng- 
land. Let me note some interesting points in 
connection with this period. 

At Consett the miners were so moved that they 
started to hold prayer meetings down a coal-pit—in 
the month of June, too, when it was very hot. I 
worked at Norwood Grove Congregational Church, 
Liverpool, with the Rev. E. R. Barrett, B.A., the 
pastor. We had a most fruitful week. Two years 
after this date Mr. Barrett told me that he had never 
had a communion service since the mission at which 
some persons who dated their awakening from my 
visit were not admitted to church membership. 

One of the most notable missions of my life was 
conducted at Wolverhampton in October, 1896. 
Dr. Berry was the life and soul of the enterprise. 
He gave up all other engagements in order to be 
present at the meetings. The annual Mayor’s 
dinner fell due during this campaign, and Dr. Berry 

267 


268 Gipsy Smith 


was invited to attend. His reply was that the most 
important thing in creation to him at that moment 
was the mission. What would his people think of 
him if he were feasting at the Mayor’s banquet 
while sinners were being converted? All the other 
ministers of Wolverhampton loyally supported Dr. 
Berry. The mission had been arranged by the local 
Free Church Council, and I am sure that it did a 
great deal towards bringing Dr. Berry to the point 
of supporting the engagement of a free-church mis- 
sioner. No man ever stood by me more sympathet- 
ically than Dr. Berry, whether in the meetings or 
out of the meetings, in his study or in my lodgings. 
I have for years had a great longing for a peaceful 
period of calm study, and I chanced to say to Dr. 
Berry, “I wish I could sit down and do nothing but 
study for a year.” He retorted, “Yes, and then you 
would be spoiled. Just you go on with your work 
and do as much reading as you can.” We had eight 
hundred inquirers. One hundred and forty of the 
converts elected to join Dr. Berry’s church. Dr. 
Berry summoned a church meeting, and, choosing 
one hundred and forty of his best members, put a 
young convert into the charge of each. The mem- 
ber was expected to visit. the new convert, and report 
to Dr. Berry every week or two for two, three, or 
four months. I heartily commend this plan. It is 
good for the young convert and good for the church 
member. 

In accordance with my custom, I told the story 
of my life on the closing night. All the tickets were 


Stories About Peter Mackenzie 269 


sold long before the meeting. The crowd who had 
been unable to get tickets gathered outside the build- 
ing in the hope of squeezing their way somehow into 
the hall. They knew there was a little standing 
room. ‘The policemen were utterly unable to keep 
the people in order. They sought to charge the 
crowd, but the crowd charged them. They pinned 
them against the walls and knocked their helmets 
about in all directions. 

My mission at Dewsbury was conducted under 
the shadow of the great name of Peter Mackenzie. 
I enjoyed the intimate friendship of Peter, who was 
a sunbeam in the lives of thousands. I met him 
for the first time, sixteen or seventeen years ago, on 
the platform of Hull station. Both of us had been 
preaching in the town. We were leaving in the 
same train, though not in the same compartment, 
because our destinations were different. I told him 
that a great work of grace had been accomplished 
in Hull. “Glory to God!’ he shouted, “I will send 
you a goose at Christmas.” Three months passed 
away. I had forgotten all about the goose and 
Peter’s promise, but he had not forgotten. He sent 
me the following letter: 


“TONORED AND DEAR SiR,—I have had no time to 
purchase a goose. But I send you tos. and a photo of 
yours truly, which when you receive you will have 
goose enough. PETER MACKENZIE.” 


I met him again at Crewe some time after I had 
addressed the Congregational Union at Hanley. 


270 Gipsy Smith 


Said he to me, ‘What a lot of steam we should 
waste if we stopped the engine every time a donkey 
brayed and went to inquire into his bronchial tubes.” 
He bought a rose at the station and put it into my 
coat. Then he hailed a newspaper boy, and shouted 
to him, “‘Penn’orth o’ Tory, penn’orth o’ Liberal, a 
penn’orth o’ fun.” Then, handing the papers to 
me, he said, “Here is your train; read how my 
Father is ruling the world.” 

Peter came to Hanley, while I was Aceenie to 
preach in the Wesleyan Chapel, and to lecture in 
the Imperial Circus on “The Devil: his Personality, 
Character, and Power.” The lecture was announced 
over the town in black letters on a huge green 
poster. As I was passing along the street a half- 
tipsy man accosted me, and pointing to the placard 
said, “What nonsense! There’s no such person as 
the devil.” I asked him what he had been doing of 
late. “Oh,” he said, “I have been drinking. I have 
had a six weeks’ spree. I’ve had a fearful time— 
the blues terribly.” ‘Oh, indeed,” I said; “what do 
you mean by the blues?’ “Don’t you know ?—little 
uns.” “Little uns?” “Yes, little uns. Don’t you 
know what I mean?—little devils, scores of them.” 
“Well,” I said, “don’t you think, now, that if there 
are lots of little uns, there must be an old un too?” 
When I seconded the vote of thanks to Peter for 
his lecture, I told this story. Rising from his seat 
and waving his chair over his head, he shouted, 
“Glory, glory. T’ll tell that all over the country.” 

When Peter was brought home ill to Dewsbury, 


Stories About Peter Mackenzie 271 


the Wesleyan minister of the town, Mr. Martin, 
called to see him. “I am very sorry, sir,” he said, 
“to find you in bed and so ill.” “Yes, yes,” said 
Peter, “I am in the dry-dock, undergoing repairs.” 
Mr. Martin heard that Peter had become much 
worse, and again called on him. “Ah,” said Peter, 
“Father is going to send down the angel and let old 
Peter out of prison.” A few days later he died. 


CHAPTER XXVII 
AS THE NATIONAL COUNCIL’S MISSIONER 


On my return from my last trip to America, my 
pastor, the Rev. S. F. Collier, remarked to me that 
the position I ought to fill was that of recognized 
Free Church evangelist. He said that he intended 
to suggest this to some leaders of the National Free 
Church Council. Dr. Pope met me one day in Man- 
chester and made the same remark. Not long after 
these conversations, I received a letter from the 
Rev. Thomas Law, the General Secretary of the 
National Council, asking me to meet him at the 
Central Hall, Manchester. I believe that Mr. Law 
had developed in his own mind, and had suggested 
to the committee, a great scheme of evangelism to 
be undertaken by the National Council, and that, in 
this connection, his thoughts had been turned 
towards me. I did not gather from this first inter- 
view that Mr. Law at that time was empowered to 
invite me to become the Free Church missioner. I 
understood that he merely desired to ascertain my 
views on the matter. I agreed with him that of- 
ficial connection with the National Free Church 
Council would certainly be a great strength to me 
and would open up to me a wider field. I talked 

272 


The National Council’s Missioner 273 


the matter over with my wife, and she advised me 
to accept the position if it was offered me. I had 
not sought it. It had come to me. At a second in- 
terview with Mr. Law I consented to become the 
National Council’s missioner. It was arranged that 
I should begin work on the 1st of September, 1897. 

I could write a volume about my work for the 
National Free Church Council. It was greatly 
blessed, and it is full of interesting and encouraging 
incidents. Let me tell a few anecdotes. When I 
was conducting a mission at Lancaster I overheard 
two men discussing my career. One of them was 
somewhat deaf, and like most deaf people, spoke 
very loud. My life story, according to this deaf 
man, was this: “When Gipsy Smith was a little 
chap—quite a kid, you know—they sold him to a 
rich old bloke with plenty of brass. This old chap 
was freligious-like, taught the Gipsy to read the 
Bible and be good, you know; and then the old chap 
died and left the Gipsy all his money—plenty of 
brass! Oh, lots of brass! Then Gipsy took to 
preaching, and they called him ‘Gipsy Smith,’ be- 
cause he was a gipsy when he wasa kid. Heisa 
splendid preacher. He preaches just for the love 
of it. He need not doit. He has plenty of brass; 
the old chap left him such a lot. Now, that’s the 
man. lam going to hear him.”’ When I appeared 
before my congregation in the evening I saw this 
man and his wife sitting immediately in front of 
me. I told the people the story of my career that I 
had overheard. The author of this strange romance 


274 Gipsy Smith 


listened with his mouth wide open. I said, ‘That 
story is not true, and if you will come to this church 
on Monday night, you shall hear the true story.” 
The man and his wife were converted during this 
mission. 

My wife and I, with some friends, were spending 
a week at the seaside. I had wandered a little bit 
away from them. An Italian girl, who made her 
living by singing and playing to the people, evi- 
dently mistook me for a countryman of hers. I was 
dressed in a velvet jacket, and beaver hat. She be- 
gan to talk to me in what I took to be Italian. I 
told her that I was not an Italian, but a gipsy, and 
that she must speak in English. 

“Gipsy! she said. “Tent?” 

nives.4 

“Woods?” 

Yes... 

“Wild?” 

eS 

nod die,./ 

Presently my wife came up to me, and the Italian 
girl said to her: “You go away; this is my young 
man.” I explained to my new sweetheart that the 
lady she was sending away was my wife. In broken 
English, she asked Mrs. Smith the same questions 
she had put to me, whether I had been brought up 
in a tent, lived in the woods, and run wild? She 
replied, “Yes.” Then said the Italian girl, “Where 
did you catch him?” 

I asked a number of Sunday-school children one 


The National Council’s Missioner 275 


day what a gipsy was. A little boy replied: “A 
man who goes round and round and round to see 
what he can find.” Not at all a bad definition of 
many gipsies. 

A pretty incident occurred during my mission in 
Cheltenham. A sweet, beautiful young lady, who 
was converted one night, brought with her, two or 
three nights later, her dearest friend, a deaf and 
dumb girl. As my sermon proceeded I saw the 
new convert interpreting to her friend what I was 
saying. This deaf and dumb girl was the first 
person to rise for prayer. Presently the two went 
into the inquiry-room. “Will you please help my 
friend? She is seeking the Saviour,” said the new 
convert. The inquirer being deaf and dumb, none 
of the workers was of any use, and so we told the 
young lady that she was the proper person to bring 
her friend to Christ. The two went away happy in 
their Saviour. 

It was during a mission at Taunton that I learned 
the hymn “Count Your Blessings,” which through 
its use at my services has become exceedingly popu- 
lar in many parts of England. At the request of 
Mr. Tom Penny, my host, I visited the infirmary. 
Most of the patients had been carried out onto a 
lawn for a sun-bath. I spoke a few words to them, 
and then Mr. Penny said: “Before Mr. Smith goes, 
won't you sing something for him?” “Yes, sir,” 
said a little girl. “What will you sing?” said he. 
“Count Your Blessings,” was the reply. Immedi- 
ately I was deeply touched and impressed. Here 


276 Gipsy Smith 


was I in full enjoyment of health and of many 
priceless benefits of God, yet I had never counted 
my blessings—it had never occurred to me so to do. 
I felt sure that thousands of others had been guilty 
of the same omission. I reflected that the Psalmist 
must have been thinking of this disposition of our 
hearts when he sang, “Forget not all His benefits.” 
Many of us, alas! are never so happy as when we 
are talking about our miseries. The sweet song 
fastened itself upon my heart and soul. I sing it at 
my meetings very frequently. The hymn attained 
extraordinary vogue during my mission campaign 
at the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Wherever one 
might go—in the streets, in the trams, in the trains 
——some one was humming or whistling or singing, 
“Count Your Blessings.” The boys pushing their 
barrows along, the men driving their horses, and 
the women rocking their cradles—all these had been 
caught by the truth and melody of the hymn. 

My last mission for the nineteenth century was 
conducted at Luton. The inquiries numbered 1,080, 
rather more than one in every forty of the popula- 
tion. Rev. W. Henry Thompson, the Wesleyan 
minister of the town and the chairman of the dis- 
trict, said to me that the people in Luton never ask 
“Where are the new converts?” They have no 
need to put the question. The new converts are 
everywhere—in the Sunday services, the week-night 
services, and Christian Endeavor meetings. Said 
Mr. Thompson to me, “I have never been connected 
with a revival which left such a genuine crop of new 


The National Council’s Missioner 277 


’ 


converts as yours.”’ As I have said elsewhere, to me 
the most memorable incident of this mission was the 
restoration of my sister, Lovinia (Mrs. Oakley), 
who had been a backslider for years. Her health 
has not been good, and a week or two ago I visited 
her. I told her I was going to put her into my 
book. She said, “Yes, all right; tell your readers 
I am holding out, and that I may soon be in the 
presence of my Lord. I do not fear the great day. 
I have placed my trust in Jesus Christ.” 

During the mission at Luton, my brother-in-law, 
Mr. Evens, was sent for to conduct the overflow 
meetings. On the Saturday I took him to the place 
of my mother’s death and burial—at Baldock, about 
twenty miles off. I pointed out to him almost the 
exact spot in Norton Lane where she lay sick unto 
death, and together we trod the path along which 
her coffin must have been carried to the grave, with 
my father following as the sole mourner. When we 
stood by the grave, I said to my brother-in-law: “T 
have been feeling for some time that I should erect 
a stone here.” “I am rather surprised,’ he an- 
swered, “that you have not done so before.” “Yes, 
indeed, but I have made up my mind to do it now.” 
Alderman Giddings, the Mayor of Luton, presided 
at my lecture on the Monday evening. When I 
reached the part where IJ tell of the death and burial 
of my mother, he turned to Mr. Evens, who was 
sitting beside him on the platform, and asked, “Is 
there a stone over that grave?” “No,” he replied. 
“Well, I will put one up; that is my business.” At 


278 Gipsy Smith 


the close of the meeting he told me of his decision. 
The incident seemed to me a remarkable comment 
on the text: “Before ye call I will answer. While 
ye are yet speaking I will hear.” 

The opening weeks of the twentieth century were 
made forever memorable in the history of the evan- 
gelical free churches of England by the simultane- 
ous mission. From the beginning of the Federa- 
tion movement—a movement which commands the 
support of all the leaders in the free evangelical 
churches of England and Wales, and has succeeded 
in welding these churches together into one mighty 
army—evangelistic work has had a prominent, and 
indeed a foremost place. Most of the local councils, 
which now number nearly eight hundred, have at 
one time or another held united missions with con- 
spicuous success. It occurred to the Rev. Thomas 
Law, the general secretary of the National Council, 
that no better way of inaugurating the new century 
could be devised than that these councils should at 
the same time be engaged in an earnest endeavor to 
reach the masses outside the churches. It was im- 
possible to conduct the campaign with literal sim- 
ultaneity. The work in London extended from 
January 26th to February 6th; in the provinces, 
from February 16th to February 26th; and in the 
villages from March 2nd to 6th. This great enter- 
prise was crowned with the richest spiritual bless- 
ing. 

I worked at the Metropolitan Tabernacle during 
the London campaign. The vast building was 


The National Council’s Missioner 279 


crowded at every service, and more than twelve 
hundred persons passed through the inquiry-rooms. 
I had the great joy of my father’s presence with me 
every night. Mr. William Chivers, whose mother 
bought clothes-pegs from me when I was a boy, 
brought my father from Cambridge to London with 
him as his guest, and entertained him during the 
week. Several other relatives came up to that mis- 
sion—some aunts and cousins that I had not seen 
for twenty years or more. My father was in his 
element. It was the crowning experience of his 
life. Mr. Meyer afterwards said that it was beauti- 
ful to witness on the old man’s face the exact cor- 
respondence of sympathy with the emotions that 
filled the heart of the younger man as he proceeded 
with his discourse. It was hard to tell which the 
sermon cost more, the father or the son. One night 
as we two got into a cab, my father was full of un- 
controllable joy. Jumping up, he said, “TI tell you, 
my dear, I seemed to creep right into your waistcoat 
to-night.” That was his vivid and characteristic 
way of expressing the perfection of his sympathy 
with me. My father, uninvited, assumed control 
of the inquiry-room workers at the Tabernacle, but 
so gracefully and so sweetly did he do it that the 
workers quite willingly submitted to his direction, 
feeling that it was only what should be. 

The Rev. Thomas Spurgeon, the pastor of the 
Tabernacle, was present at nearly every service, 
and a few days after the mission he wrote the fol- 
lowing notes about it: “From the outset Gipsy 


280 Gipsy Smith 


Smith secured the ear of the people, and soon he 
had the joy of winning their hearts for Christ. He 
emphasized the need of repentance, and the neces- 
sity for the new birth. He denounced every form 
of evil, and warned men to flee from the wrath to 
come. He preached a full and free salvation, and 
illustrated all with thrilling incidents culled largely 
from his own wonderful experience. It was evident 
at each service that he had spoken to good purpose. 
The demonstration of the Spirit was never lacking. 
No sooner was the address over than scores were 
ready to testify as to their desire to be saved, and 
to respond to a singularly persuasive appeal to ‘come 
along’ into the inquiry-rooms. One friend, who has 
been in the thick of many such movements, as- 
sures me that better work was never done before, 
so evident was the breaking down, and so manifest 
the breaking in of the marvellous light. We were 
all constrained to say, “This is the finger of God.’ ” 
Writing in October, 1901, Mr. Spurgeon said: 
“Converts resulting from Gipsy Smith’s mission are 
still appearing and asking to be united with God’s 
people. Those who have already joined us seem to 
be of the right sort, and these later applicants are 
bright examples of Christ’s power to keep and save. 
Writing eight months after the mission, I can only 
confirm my Oneure verdict of it—full of real power 
and blessing.” 

Rev. F. B. Meyer, B. ryt has also kindly sent me 
the following note about my work at the Taber- 
nacle: 


The National Council’s Missioner 281 


“T shall never forget one evening when the father 
of the evangelist was present on the platform, and 
seemed to be adding the force of his own devout, 
fervent spirit with every word uttered by his son. 
Our beloved friend enjoyed unusual liberty that 
night. It seemed as though the fragrance and music 
of his own early life were being wafted like a fresh 
breeze to the audience, which alternately was melted 
in tears or stirred to enthusiasm. 

“We are still continually hearing of blessing 
which was not recorded at the time, and the secre- 
tary tells me that he has received many satisfactory 
reports from clergymen and ministers of the neigh- 
borhood of the cases handed over to their care. It 
is believed that nearly every church in the locality 
received some new converts, while the quickened 
life of many Christians testifies to the benefit they 
received. 

“Tt is interesting to see the evangelical nature of 
our friend’s spirit and work. He attracts around 
him ministers of all denominations, and even Chris- 
tians of the Established Church are drawn to him. 
God has greatly gifted him, and we can only believe 
and pray that he may be spared for many years, 
like a stalwart reaper, to go through the harvest 
field of the churches, gathering in myriads of souls.” 

This seems a fitting place to say that my missions 
in London in connection with the National Council 
have all been blessed with gratifying success. Per- 
haps the two most notable were those at Marylebone 
and Paddington. 


282 Gipsy Smith 


Dr. Clifford gave his impressions of the Padding- 
ton mission in a long article published in the CAris- 
tian World. He said: 


“It has been a most helpful time; there is not a 
church in the council that has not been represented 
among the visitors in the inquiry-room. Members and 
ministers thankfully testify to the quickening they 
have received. The message of the evangelist goes 
straight to the heart of the gospel, and his methods are 
as sane as his gospel is clear. He has no fads. He is 
not the victim of vagaries. He does not air any vision- 
ary theories. He knows his work and does it. He 
does not quarrel with pastors and call it preaching the 
gospel. He is their helper. Exhaustless resources of 
pathos are his. There is a tear in his voice. He moves 
the heart of his audience to its utmost depths. But he 
never forgets that man has an intellect, and thinks and 
reasons; and when the hearer is most roused to cross 
the Rubicon he holds him in thought as to the meaning 
of the step he is taking, tells him that going into the in- 
quiry-room—important as that is as a definite and dis- 
tinct choice of discipleship to Christ—is only a begin- 
ning, and must be followed by a resolute, patient, and 
thorough-going obedience to Christ, the newly accepted 
Master. His humor is irresistible. It is one of his 
sources of power, for humor is human. It is one of 
the elemental forces of life, and it never fails to attract. 
He suffers no conventions to stand between him and it. 
He despises conventionality, and is as incapable of 
dulness as he is of obscurity. Every hearer sees what 
he is aiming at, and knows and feels that he is seeking 
the highest good. Hardly for a moment does he seem 


The National Council’s Missioner 282 


to lose touch of God or of his audience, and after a 
broad flash of humor instantly swings back into a 
direct and searching appeal, or else ascends in prayer 
not less direct and still more earnest. 

“The ethical rings out in his teaching with terrible 
resonance. Most of his strength is derived from the 
directness of his appeals to the conscience. He searches 
the heart, exposes the subtle devices with which we 
shirk our responsibilities as Christians, and compels us 
secretly to admit, if not to confess, our sins. The 
value of the mission to the avowed disciples of Christ 
is not less than to those who are constrained to make 
the great decision.” 


I worked at Birmingham during the provincial 
campaign of the Simultaneous Mission. Alderman 
Edwards, the Mayor, who is a prominent Congre- 
gationalist, postponed the mayoral banquet in order 
that it should not interfere with the mission and 
appeared by my side as often as possible. I was 
greatly helped by the best choir (conducted by Mr. 
Thomas Facer) and by the strongest band of work- 
ers and stewards that I have ever had anywhere. 
The town-hall was crowded every evening; indeed, 
sometimes we could have filled it thrice over. Dr. 
Clifford, my colleague in this campaign—and no 
better colleague could a man have—delivered a 
series of noon-day addresses on “Be ye reconciled 
unto God,” which made a profound impression. 
His meetings were attended by from one thousand 
to one thousand five hundred people. When the last 
lecture was delivered, I was moved to propose a 


284 Gipsy Smith 


vote of thanks to Dr. Clifford, and to urge that the 
discourses should be published. At the evening 
service Dr. Clifford sat by my side, except, when he 
was conducting overflow meetings in Carr’s Lane 
Chapel. I felt in every service that he was praying 
for me and supporting me by his deepest sympathy. 
One night the first three rows in the town-hall were 
filled entirely by men, and not one of them had a 
collar on. At the close they all went into the in- 
quiry-room. As the mission proceeded the crowds 
grew. People came and stood two hours or more 
in the hope of getting in. The local papers stated 
that even Joseph Chamberlain could not draw such 
crowds as were attracted by Dr. Clifford and Gipsy 
Smith. 

On the second Sunday of-the mission the people 
began to gather in the morning for the afternoon 
service. Five minutes after the doors were opened 
the place was crowded. There were more persons 
outside seeking admission than there were inside 
the hall. Those who could not get in did not go 
away. They simply waited for the evening meet- 
ing, which was announced to start at seven. So 
large were the crowds that we began the service at 
five o’clock. Four policemen carried me into the 
hall over the heads of the people. An unaided at- 
tempt to force my way through the crowd was hope- 
less. Dr. Clifford was preaching that night at Carr’s 
Lane. He had a rather curious experience. The 
policeman at the door refused him admission. 

“T want to go in,” said Dr. Clifford. 


The National Council’s Missioner 285 


“Are you a seat-holder?”’ 

“No, I am not.” 

“Well, you cannot get in.” 

“T think there will be room for me in the pulpit.” 

“T am not so sure of it.” 

“But Iam Dr. Clifford; I am going to preach.” 

“Oh, are you? I have let in two or three Dr. 
Cliffords already.” 

In the end Dr. Clifford succeeded in establishing 
his identity to the satisfaction of the officers of the 
law, and was permitted to enter. 

One thousand five hundred persons passed 
through the inquiry-rooms during the mission. 

The late Dr. J. H. Jowett, M.A., in a note of his 
impressions he kindly sent to me, said: 


“Perhaps the most marked impression that remains 
in my mind, when I recall the great mission of last 
February, is the marvellous power of the missioner’s 
self-restraint. There was nothing of the ‘scream’ in 
the meetings! The sensational was entirely absent. 
I always felt that the leader was perfectly self-pos- 
sessed, and that in his heart there dwelt the quietness 
which is the fruit of a steady faith in the Lord. In 
the final appeals the missioner himself was overlooked 
in the mighty sense of the presence of God. The mov- 
ing power was not so much a voice as an atmosphere. 
Hard hearts were melted in the constraint of an all- 
pervading spiritual power. It was not only the igno- 
rant and uncultured who were won; those whose minds 
had received mental illumination were also wooed into 
the light of life. I have in my congregation young fel- 


286 Gipsy Smith 


lows of no mean ability who were led into definite 
decision for the Christ.” 


I worked as missioner for the Free Church Coun- 
cil till 1912, when I resigned. With the interludes 
of visits to South Africa and the United States, the 
missions were held in centres covering every part 
of the country. At Denbigh, in 1906, one-fifth of 
the entire population entered the inquiry-room. 
Much of the fruits of the missions were visible in 
professed conversions, but the Gospel seed is often 
slow in germination, and the fruits of the sowing 
must be left to the Lord of the harvest. My firm 
conviction is that no good seed sown in the Master’s 
name is wasted. To Him be the glory! 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


SOUTH AFRICA: A MISSION OF 
RECONCILIATION 


BEForRE the Boer War I had been invited to go to 
South Africa, but the war cloud gathered and broke 
in armed conflict. Our plans were shattered. After 
the war the need of a mission was more than ever 
felt. The National Free Church Council arranged 
for my going, and in the spring of 1904, with my 
wife and daughter, I landed at Cape Town. The 
mission swept the whole of South Africa. In Cape 
Town, Orange River, the Transvaal and Natal, 
we were welcomed by enormous and enthusiastic 
crowds. “Count Your Blessings” and “Throw out 
the Life Line” put all the comic songs out of action. 
The ministers and laity were wholeheartedly with 
us, although, at first, those of the Dutch Reformed 
Church stood apart. It happened that a dear old 
Father of that Church, Professor Hoffmeyer, had 
read my book. He called on me at Cape Town 
and we spent two hours in beautiful fellowship. I 
felt my chance had come when he said, “I want 
you to live in the sunshine of God’s love.” I re- 
plied, ‘“That’s where I want to live, and I want you 
to help me to bring the Boer and the Briton together 
in this campaign.” 

287 


288 Gipsy Smith 


He at once invited me to go to the Seminary at 
Stellenbosch to address his theological students and 
preach to the Dutch Church. Of course I went. 
There was a cold and critical attitude, for the war 
had left a strong anti-British feeling, but the Lord 
helped me to win. That afternoon one hundred and 
fifty Dutch people entered the inquiry-room, and 
the theological students were my helpers. Dr. Hoff- 
meyer sent to the Dutch papers a message that 
“Gipsy Smith has been sent of God to the Dutch 
people of this country, and I hope the churches and 
the homes of our people will be open to him.” They 
were. All along our route the Dutch came in their 
hundreds, and it was beautiful to see a Dutchman 
pointing an Englishman, or an Englishman a Dutch- 
man, to Christ. Five hundred Dutch in Cape Town, 
alone, passed through the inquiry-room. <A promi- 
nent wine merchant complained that so many con- 
verted customers had given up taking wines that 
unless Gipsy Smith were sent soon to England he 
would have to reduce his staff. 

At Johannesburg one thousand three hundred 
Dutch were personally dealt with.. At the conclud- 
ing Thanksgiving Meeting, one thousand one hun- 
dred converts were present. Lord Milner, then 
Governor-General, invited me that day to lunch, 
and told me that my message had done more to 
heal the wounds of South Africa and to bring the 
two peoples together than all the Parliaments and 
politicians had done since the war. 

The Johannesburg meetings, as there was no hall 


South Africa 289 


big enough, were held in a large tent imported from 
England. One of the first converts, a Dutchman, 
I was told by a minister host, went straight from 
the meeting to a man with whom he was on terms 
of friendship and, producing a gold watch, con- 
fessed that he had stolen it from his “friend” eight 
years before, but he had just heard from Gipsy 
Smith that “getting right with God means getting 
right with man,” and so he said, “I have brought 
back your watch to get right with you.” 

The converts were so numerous that it was quite 
impossible to deal personally with all who desired 
to be instructed and taught the Word of the Lord 
at the night meetings, and I engaged two rooms in 
the centre of the city, where I could meet inquirers 
every morning from ten to twelve. Day after day 
these rooms were crowded with people who came 
for nothing else but to find Christ. On a particular 
morning, when, because of the lameness of his 
horse, it was impossible for my host to drive me to 
this place, I was walking and even running to get 
there in time, when, turning sharp around a corner, 
I ran into the arms of a man whose dissipated ap- 
pearance indicated a drunkard. He was struggling 
to shake off a six weeks’ spree. He put his arms 
around me and said, “Hello! my dear!’ By his 
speech I discovered he was a Cornishman, and I 
asked, “How do you know me?” He answered, 
“T know you,” and pulling ott of his inside pocket 
a copy of my “Autobiography” he opened it to the 
front page picture and exclaimed, “‘Isn’t that you?” 


290 Gipsy Smith 


He added, “My old mother sent me that book from 
Cornwall,” and as I looked at the chapter on “My 
Mother,” I saw that he had read it and wept over 
it, for there were the marks of his tears on page 
after page, until some of them were scarcely read- 
able. Then this poor, dirty fellow showed me 
three letters he was carrying inside the book. One 
was from his mother, one from his wife, and the 
third was from his little girl. Then taking from 
his pocket a handful of gold sovereigns, he said: 
“T am not a pauper. I know I look disreputable 
and unclean because I have been drinking. but when 
I work I earn sixty pounds a month in the mines, 
and sometimes I go for three months at a time, 
and I have even gone for six months, fighting the 
drink, without tasting the stuff, but then it gets me 
down again. The drink has got me by the throat 
and there’s no hope for me.” 

Taking the man by the arm, I crossed the street 
with him and took him into a drug store. “Good 
morning,” I said to the man behind the counter, 
who proved to be a member of my choir. I asked: 
“Have you got a little corner where I can get 
down and pray with a poor sinner?” “Come into 
my Office,” he said. So there we knelt and prayed, 
both of us, and when we got up from our knees I 
remarked to this poor fellow, ““Now you’ve got to 
fight,’’ and while walking out to the street, he said, 
so pitifully, “What shall I do when the temptation 
comes back?” “Well,” I answered, “if you saw 
a lion coming at you, full tilt, and you hadn’t got 


South Africa 291 


your gun, what should you do?” He laughed and 
Said.) nl vsnould. make,!tracks)” 2 Well? il said: 
“when you’re tempted to drink, ‘make tracks,’ for 
it’s the lion. Run for your life.” Before I left him 
he promised to be at the meeting that night. 

When the great crowd gathered I scanned and 
searched the audience for my man, all through the 
early part of the meeting. I looked but failed to 
find him. I was so moved and constrained in spirit 
for him, that I had to take the audience into my 
confidence before I could preach. I frankly told 
the people of the incident and said, briefly, “The 
poor fellow is having a desperate struggle some- 
where! Join me in faith and prayer for that man. 
He promised me faithfully he would be here but 
I cannot find him.” JI should add right here that, 
of course, I was looking for him as I had seen him 
that morning. Just then a fine, clean, well-dressed, 
well-groomed man on the front row jumped up and 
said, “I am here, sir.” I positively did not know 
him. The outward change was so great. I looked 
at him and said, “You are not. the old fellow I 
prayed with this morning?” “No,” he replied, “T 
am born again,” and holding up three letters, he 
continued ‘“There’s one for my mother; that one is 
for my wife, and here is the one I have written to 
my little daughter.” Tears were streaming down 
his face as he added, “I have told them all, that, 
in the strength of God, I shall never never, drink 
again.” 

Cases like these have been multiplied in my ex- 


292 Gipsy Smith 


perience, showing and proving the regenerating and 
transforming and miracle-working power of the 
Holy Spirit in the human heart when the Gospel of 
Jesus Christ and the Resurrection is preached in 
the power and spirit of Pentecost. 

Another incident I recall, when thinking of my 
stay in Johannesburg, is what happened at one of 
the meetings for young people. I noticed a whole 
section of over two hundred young people not join- 
ing in the song, and at the moment we were singing 
“Count Your Blessings.’’ Stopping the singing, I 
turned to this particular section and asked why they 
were not singing. The minister in charge of them 
replied, “These are Dutch children, Brother Smith, 
and they don’t sufficiently understand English to 
sing the hymn, for they don’t know it.’”’ I instantly 
felt the situation and regretted I had asked the 
question, especially as they were the orphan chil- 
dren of the Dutch. I begged forgiveness. After- 
wards I learned from the ministers that they were 
war orphans who had come from an orphanage in 
one of the suburbs. One day I was invited to lunch 
with, and to speak to them, an invitation I gladly 
accepted. After the luncheon the good preacher in 
charge turned to me and said, “I have translated 
‘Count Your Blessings’ into Dutch, their own lan- 
guage, and they will sing it for you.” This they 
did, with a sweetness I cannot forget. And remem- 
ber, the fathers of these young people had been 
killed by English bullets. They and I, together, 
were singing, they in Dutch, and I in English, 


South Africa 293 


“Count your blessings, see what God hath done.” 
Surely only the Cross of Jesus could have allayed 
the storm in the hearts of that company, a storm of 
bitterness against me and all other Britishers. 

But listen to what follows! Beginning my ad- 
dress, I said, “You young people know I am 
British, don’t you? I wonder if you love me?” In 
response the two hundred and fifty raised their left 
hands. Thinking it rather odd that they should 
raise their left hands, I asked, “Why your left 
hand?” The dear things answered simultaneously, 
“Tt is nearest the heart, sir.” This expression of 
love was spontaneous. It had in no wise been re- 
hearsed and to me it was a very tender experience. 
It is one which always stands out in my memory 
when I think of South Africa, and the years do 
not dim the beauty of it. These young people, 
made orphans by British guns, yet loved me, a Brit- 
isher. The Cross kills all envy and malice anl 
makes men and nations love each other. 

In my itinerary Pretoria followed Johannesburg. 
It will be remembered that this city was the home 
of President Kruger. During the evangelistic cam- 
paign here, news reached South Africa of the death 
of the old President who at one time had dominated 
that section of the country. Knowing that I had 
already gripped the Dutch population and that they 
were coming to my meetings in increasing numbers, 
I immediately arranged and: announced a memorial 
service for the late President. This meeting was 
overwhelming in its numbers and power and when 


294 Gipsy Smith 


I made my appeal for those who desired to give 
themselves to Christ, one of the first to go into the 
inquiry-room was a fine manly fellow, who proved 
to be a grandson of the President Kruger. This 
incident convinced me that I was reaching the very 
people for whom I was holding that service. There 
were present that night many people who had fig- 
ured largely in the days of the Boer War. I repeat 
my conviction that up to that time, at least, nothing 
had so succeeded as my missions in bringing the 
two nations together. 

I recall a letter sent me by a native woman in 
Maritzburg, who had four children. She referred 
to her conversion and said, “We have such a happy 
home since the Mission—praise the Lord! I send 
you two pounds for you when you get home to buy 
Bibles and give them to poor little gipsy children 
in your country who have no Bibles. Tell them 
they were sent by a coloured woman in South 
Africa who was converted under Gipsy Smith, the 
evangelist, and who feels she owes a debt to gipsies, 
and would like to pay it back in this way.” 

While en route from one city to another, I wrote 
a number of articles trying to describe the results 
of the work in each phase visited. These the 
National Free Church Council of England put into 
permanent form and published in a volume entitled, 
“A Mission of Peace.” 

One of the echoes of my preaching in Johan- 
nesburg did not reach my ears until months later, 
after I had been conducting a mission in the West 


South Africa 295 


of England. I was riding in a railway train, sit- 
ting in a corner reading a newspaper, when I heard 
the people in the coach discussing the evangelist 
and his mission. They did not recognise me and 
some talked for me and some against me. I knew 
better than to be hurt or offended by criticism. It 
was good for me. But imagine my surprise when 
I heard a dear old grannie, with a basket of apples 
on her knees, telling of my work in Johannesburg. 
She said, “Well, folks, you can say what you will 
about Gipsy Smith, but I pray for him every day 
of my life. I have never seen him, but I love him 
with a mother’s love. You know my grandson 
John went off to South Africa and it broke his 
mother’s heart. She died. For seven years we 
never heard from John. At last, when he wrote, 
he told us, ‘Gipsy Smith was in Johannesburg and 
I went to hear him and I gave my heart to God. 
He told us not to save the flowers for our mothers’ 
funeral. ‘Put some of them in her hands while she 
is living,’ so, granny, I am coming home to put 
some flowers in your hand!’ That grandson of 
mine came home and he is now a local preacher. 
Weare all proud of our John and if I am anywhere 
near Gipsy Smith when he dies, I would like to 
write on his coffin, ‘A friend of sinners.’ ” 

After Pretoria, I went to Ladysmith, where, it 
will be remembered, General White was besieged 
for many months. From Ladysmith I went to 
Durban, where one of the greatest missions of 
the winter’s campaign was held. Large numbers 


296 Gipsy Smith 


of people, young and old, found Christ. A minister 
and his wife, dear friends of mine who live in 
Cambridge at the moment of writing, were among 
those converted in the young peoples’ meeting in 
Durban. The man, after his conversion became 
the coxswain of the Cambridge crew for his year. 
As a young scholar he was brilliant and to-day he 
is one of the masters at the Leys School in Cam- 
bridge. When I think of this man, the Rev. Con- 
rad Skinner, and his wife, I feel that my trip to 
South Africa was worth while, if I had won only 
these two, and worth while to my own city of Cam- 
bridge as the years have proved. 

Missions were also conducted in Pietermaritz- 
burg, and here among the converts was a truly re- 
markable case. I had set aside one afternoon at my 
host’s in order to see difficult cases. When I was 
well-nigh spent and my soul was bowed down with 
anguish, at the stories I had been obliged to listen 
to, I saw a man, whose face I shall never forget, 
pass the window, making toward the door. I said 
to my host, “I can’t see that man to-night, for I 
have heard about as much as I can stand.” The 
man only knocked at the door and left a letter for 
me to read. He did not ask to see me. It was a 
long letter confessing a life of sin and shame. In 
the letter he said he had made money and had 
travelled the world over to do wrong and to get 
away from all restraint and to find the place on 
the globe where he could sin with impunity. It 
appeared from his letter that he was a man who 


South Africa 2907 


had, in his early days, experienced and known his 
Lord and for a time lived a beautiful Christian 
life until he became a backslider, with the result 
that I have named. He was now spending his 
time visiting the studies of the various preachers 
in the city asking them to pray with him and for 
him. His great burden was, “I am lost.” He 
thought his hunger for God had been put in his 
heart by God, he said, “not to satisfy him, but 
to punish him.” He was known in Pietermaritz- 
burg and greatly pitied; and many thought him 
to be suffering from religious mania. At the close 
of his letter he asked me to pray for him publicly. 

That night, in the great crowded city building, 
I read such parts of his letter as I deemed wise, 
and asked the people to join me in prayer for this 
man without, of course, mentioning his name. It 
was included with a number of other requests for 
prayer, and then by a strange leading, which I be- 
lieve was the leading of the Holy Spirit, I preached 
on “The Man Dwelling in the Tombs,’ who was 
possessed by the devil, and then later clothed and 
in his right mind, sitting at the feet of Jesus. I 
didn’t know that the man who had written the 
letter was in the audience. But he was one of the 
first to enter the inquiry-room and God filled his 
soul; and just as Jesus stood up in that boat in 
the storm of wind and sea, and hushed it into 
silence till the waves licked his feet in homage, 
so did Jesus, that night, stand Victor amid the 
wreckage and ruin and storm of that poor man’s 


298 Gipsy Smith 


torn life, and whisper, “Peace, be still!’ That 
night that man went home to his friends, like the 
other man of long ago, to tell how great things 
the Lord in His compassion had done for him. 
My dear friend, Mr. John Hardy, a business man 
of that city, whose guest I was at the time, has 
since told me that this man is a miracle of grace. 

God’s jewels lie hidden. Those who would find 
them must dig. He who will dig deep enough into 
every human heart will find the vein of pure gold. 
If we only believe this we shall look for the good 
and find the good, even in the most degraded and 
fallen specimens of humanity. We can help them, 
under God, to become assets instead of liabilities if 
we see God’s dear angel in every scarred face we 
meet. It is redeeming love that penetrates down 
deep into the vein of pure gold. God knows where 
His treasures are, but we must dig, if we would 
discover them under the débris. 

I once visited a native mission station, where I 
was welcomed by native ministers, two chiefs, and 
four or five hundred native Christians. It was an 
inexpressible joy to talk to them. They were like 
a lot of big, wide-eyed children. Such scenes be- 
came common. Once I had no fewer than four in- 
terpreters. I had to wait for each.to translate and 
by the time the fourth one was through I had al- 
most forgotten my previous sentence. Disconcert- 
ing to say the least! But I considered it a real 
opportunity to preach to these folk. 

As an outstanding example of many conversions 





THE CONVERTED GIPSY BROTHERS. 
Bartholomew, My Father, Woodlock. 








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South Africa 299 


in one family in answer to prayer, I would cite 
that of an old man nearly eighty, who lived in East 
London, South Africa. Eight of his nine children 
had married and settled in various cities. When 
I was in his district the old man became concerned 
about his own unfaithfulness as a Christian. He 
argued to himself that had he been a more worthy 
and faithful follower of Jesus it would not have 
been true that his nine children were all of them 
unconverted. So he wrote to them all, inviting 
them to visit him for a family reunion. They came 
with their wives and husbands, and when they were 
all together once more in his home, the old man 
confessed to them the burden of his heart and his 
unfaithfulness to God. He told them how he 
longed for them to be converted. He asked them 
to kneel with him in prayer. Before they departed 
they all promised that, if possible, they would hear 
Gipsy Smith preach when he visited their several 
cities. The result was that the seventeen young 
people of that one old man’s family became Chris- 
tians. Undoubtedly this was in answer to the dear 
old father’s prayer, and an honour which God had 
placed upon him, because of his penitence in ac- 
knowledging his own unfaithfulness. Power al- 
ways follows honesty. 

Another wonderful story of conversion which 
took place under my preaching in East London 
was that of a man who came to see me and told 
me he had been guilty of murder. He had killed 
his chum who had succeeded in capturing the girl 


300 Gipsy Smith 


they both loved. He said he had buried him in 
the sand dunes not far from New Brighton, Liver- 
pool. Then he had fled to South Africa. He told 
me he knew he would never find peace until he had 
cleared his conscience before the authorities of Eng- 
land. After his conversion he returned to England 
and voluntarily surrendered to the law and suffered 
many years of imprisonment. Not long ago, in an 
American city, at the close of one of my meetings, 
this same man came and talked with me and told 
me he was still trying to serve the Lord. He said 
the memory of the past was very bitter, and he had 
never forgiven himself, although he knew God had 
forgiven him, proving again that God’s promise is 
unchanging, even to the greatest of sinners. He 
will abundantly pardon. 

While I am writing of this South African tour 
and telling of remarkable conversions here and 
there among murderers, drunkards and backsliders, 
I would not fail to mention the fact that there were 
also beautiful instances of conversion among the 
most cultured and refined people. Not by any 
means were our results seen only among the worst 
classes. The Cross appeals to the deepest need of 
the human heart, no matter what the need is, or 
how it manifests itself. Only Christ can answer 
and satisfy and save; whether it be in the refined 
or in the rough and repulsive. Sin can only be 
dealt with at the Cross. The rich man or the cul- 
tured man at the Cross is dealt with as a sinner 
who happens to be rich or cultured not as the cul- 


South Africa 3201 


tured rich, who happens to be a sinner. In dealing 
with the redeeming blood, we must put the emphasis 
where it belongs! Sin is the great fact in the man’s 
life; not his degree of learning or his amount of 
wealth. These latter considerations are only inci- 
dental. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


MORE MISSIONS TO AMERICA: MINISTERS’ 
PREJUDICES VANISH 


BeForE I went to South Africa I had met and 
worked with my dear friend, Dr. W. J. Dawson, 
who, in his book “The Evangelistic Note,” told of 
the great impression made on him by the Midnight 
Mission in the Dome at Brighton, during the Na- 
tional Free Church Council Conference Week. I 
was the first in England to begin, on a large scale, 
the midnight meetings for drunkards and other hu- 
man night-birds. Dr. Dawson arranged with me 
to have a mission at his Highbury Quadrant Church. 
Soon after, on a visit to America, he told Dr. 
Newell Dwight Hillis of the Brighton Dome meet- 
ing, and of the change made in his own life and 
ministry. Dr. Hillis said, “We must have a mission 
at Plymouth Church.” Dr. Dawson himself con- 
ducted the mission on evangelistic lines, with such 
results that his leave from England was extended, 
and similar missions followed in other American 
cities. It was on Dr. Dawson’s recommendation, 
and to follow up his own work, that I was invited 
to Boston for a month’s campaign in 1906. It was 
my sixth visit to America. My wife and daughter 
were with me. Ministers welcomed me and co- 


302 


More Missions to America 303 


operated who up till then had shown little sympathy 
with my evangelistic methods. I have addressed 
hundreds of meetings for ministers only, and al- 
ways urged that the preacher’s supreme aim should 
be, not cleverness and brilliance, but the winning 
of souls. 

In a conference of ministers which I once at- 
tended in America, after some discussion, one of 
the brethren said, “Perhaps the Gipsy could give 
us a suitable topic for to-morrow’s sermon.” They 
laughed and waited for my reply. I said, “It so 
happens that I have been scanning the list of an- 
nouncements of services in your leading newspaper, 
and I have noted the titles of your sermons. I have 
only one suggestion to make and that is, that, for 
a change, why not preach Jesus Christ?” As those 
who know me will agree, I invariably stand by the 
preachers and work with them. I owe them much 
and I fully appreciate the loads they are carrying 
and the peculiar difficulties that they encounter in 
pastoring their people. What I often say to min- 
isters is: “You are in the ministry, not only to 
preach, but also to expect and to get results. Of 
course, hand-picked fruit is the best in the market 
and you should go for the hand-picked fruit, but 
at the same time do not despise the windfalls. 
When the extra-select fruit is too high and you 
cannot reach it, and you have not got a ladder, then 
ask the first Godly brother who comes along to help 
you shake the tree, that your baskets may be full. 
Bring in the multitudes. ‘By their fruits ye shall 


304. Gipsy Smith 


know them,’ and if your preaching brings no visible 
results in actual conversions, then your church is 
bearing no fruits for the Kingdom of God, but 
simply taking care of that which it already has. If 
your preaching does not bring decisions and change 
men’s lives then something is the matter.” 

The Boston series of meetings commenced with 
a banquet at which there were five hundred minis- 
ters and laymen. Dr. A. Z. Conrad, of Park Street 
Congregational Church, was chairman of the com- 
mittee, and when he introduced me I began my 
address by assuming that since these men had in- 
vited me to their city, they were as eager as myself 
for the salvation of the city, and as loyal to Jesus 
Christ, my Saviour and Lord. My enthusiasm and 
confidence were contagious. My hopefulness and 
optimism had caught them, and I could feel their 
responsiveness. After a few earnest and impressive 
moments, I looked at my watch and concluded my 
speech by saying, “Gentlemen, the first congrega- 
tion of the campaign has, by this time, assembled. 
Let us adjourn in a body.” So we did, and the 
five hundred of us all went over together to Tre- 
mont Temple where we found the meeting had 
begun. The people were ready and God was ready. 
For five solid weeks this Tremont Temple, with a 
seating capacity of more than three thousand, was 
crowded twice daily, and thousands of men, women 
and children were brought to God. 

A pathetic incident occurred one night while I 
was preaching. The “Boston Journal’’ described it 


More Missions to America 305 


the next day, as follows: “Trembling with the 
emotion of a new-found hope two blind girls from 
the Perkins Institution for the Blind led the pro- 
cession of converts. From every portion of the 
huge auditorium suppressed sobs were audible as, 
with encouraging words, the evangelist received 
them. Those near by almost held their breath as 
the act, that meant so much to the blind pair, was 
consummated. It was a dramatic moment and 
when all was over, when the vast assemblage had 
given a helpful prayer for the two bereft of sight, 
and the speaker had given his ‘God bless you,’ all 
leaned back in their seats with a sigh of relief. 
They realised that such a conversion meant worlds 
to the girls whose only comfort is within them- 
selves.”’ 

At the final meeting in Tremont Temple Dr. 
H. A. Manchester stepped forward to the dais, 
holding in his hand a beautiful silver loving-cup 
with three handles. Dr. A. Z. Conrad took hold 
of the cup by the second handle and I was asked 
to grasp the third. Then representatives of the 
churches gathered about us and placed their hands 
on ours while the audience cheered. In presenting 
the cup to me Dr. Conrad said, “It is filled to over- 
flowing with the true affection of the ministers of 
Boston.” ‘This was the first loving-cup ever given 
to me and I prize it greatly. Boston I found to 
be as religious and responsive as any great city in 
which I have ever laboured. With some people the 
idea prevails that Boston is intellectual and cold, 


306 Gipsy Smith 


but not spiritual; that Boston is rational, but with- 
out emotion, and forever seeking after new gods to 
which they never long adhere. But my own experi- 
ence in Boston has been that the appeal to the heart 
and the conscience is as effective there as anywhere 
in the world. Whatever their culture, the people 
of that city, of all classes, realize their need of a 
Saviour, and did crowd to hear the message of 
Calvary. 

Before going to Boston I had spent two weeks 
preaching in three of the large up-town churches 
of New York City, and this had prepared the way 
for a mission which I later conducted in Brooklyn. 

After visiting Boston I held a brief mission in 
Portland, Me., and Manchester, N. H., and then 
I journeyed to Chicago, Ill., where I found that a 
large and influential committee had arranged for 
a great series of meetings. They had planned for 
the evening meetings to be held in one of the 
largest Congregational churches and for the noon- 
day meetings, for business men and women, to be 
held in one of the down-town theatres. But the 
crowds grew so rapidly that the committee was 
obliged to secure the use of the Auditorium, which 
has a seating capacity of about five thousand. 
Night after night this great building was jammed, 
long before the advertised time to begin, with people 
from all walks of life. There were many remark- 
able cases of conversion. 

One case which I particularly remember in con- 
nection with Chicago was that of a woman of im- 


More Missions to America 307 


portant social position, who went to the leading 
pastor in the city and unburdened her heart of 
the sad story of her life. A little baby that was 
born while she was yet a school girl had been smug- 
gled into a home for foundlings, and was being 
quietly supported by her friends. The woman told 
the pastor of her marriage with a rich man of the 
world. ‘Then she described her fear and constant 
forebodings lest some day her sin should come to 
light: she had not had the courage to tell her hus- 
band. First of all the pastor asked her where her 
husband was, and learned that he was out of the 
city on business. But the wise pastor, deeming the 
man’s soul of more importance than any successful 
business transaction, advised her to telegraph him 
to come at once and to persuade him to attend as 
many of the Gipsy Smith meetings as possible, be- 
fore the campaign closed. He came home and in 
the inquiry-room, on a certain Friday night, I spoke 
to them both myself, not then knowing the story or 
anything about them. 

The Sunday morning following I was won- 
drously helped in preaching. I took as my subject 
“The Christ for the Man, the Woman and the 
Child.” That husband and wife were present. 
After they reached their beautiful home she felt 
the time had come when she must open her heart 
to her husband, so she took him aside—put him in 
an easy chair and got down on her knees before 
him and made her confession fully. As she ex- 
pressed it afterwards she ‘went through the Gar- 


308 Gipsy Smith 


den of Gethsemane and to her Calvary.” He lis- 
tened and wept with her. When she had finished 
she asked of him “Can you ever forgive me?” He 
opened his big arms and said “Come in, I not only 
can, but I do forgive you, because I need forgive- 
ness myself.’”’ He continued speaking to his wife 
and said, ‘“The difference between you and me is, 
that you were discovered in your wrong and I 
wasn’t. Because I need mercy, I can have mercy.” 

Before leaving England my step-mother had said 
to me as the last thing, ““Now, remember, my Bill 
must be converted before you leave Chicago.” 
Bill was her son and the dear old lady and my 
father were praying, and had been praying, for his 
conversion for years. So, of course, while preach- 
ing in Chicago I was very much concerned about 
the conversion of this son of my step-mother. I 
knew Bill attended all the meetings, though I never 
once saw him in the audience. I knew he was 
there, however, because he was always at the cab 
door, immediately after the service, to say “Good- 
night” to me. I felt sure also that he purposely 
sat in some corner where I could not see him be- 
cause he feared he might be persuaded to surrender 
to Christ. He knew his mother’s religion; he knew 
he ought to be saved just as any boy knows who 
has had a godly mother. I have observed that the 
momentum of a godly motherhood or a religious 
ancestry is a terrific force to deal with, and I pity 
the man who tries to renounce his heritage. 

When the last meeting came and I knew that 





TAKEN D'™'RING MY MISSION IN WOLVERHAMPTON. 
October, 1806. 


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More Missions to America 309 


Bill had not yet been reached, and that I would 
later need to face my father and step-mother (his 
mother), I grew more concerned than ever about 
Bill’s conversion. I was certain that Bill had not 
surrendered up to this time, for if he had he would 
gladly have told me. Before closing the final meet- 
ing, I stood for fully five minutes, pleading with 
Bill, mentioning his name even, and begging him, 
if he were in the audience, to surrender to his 
mother’s Christ, and to give me the joy of going 
home to Cambridge with the message for her that 
her prayers had been answered and that her boy 
was converted. I told the audience that there were 
old folks at home in Cambridge, England, praying 
for this man and that I felt sure he was some- 
where in that great crowd before me. At last I 
made bold to say, “Come on, Bill! I know you 
want to come now. Let me see you.” But Bill 
did not come and we went on singing. During the 
last stanza of a well-known hymn, a fine, handsome 
fellow came and pulled my coat behind me and fell 
on my arm sobbing as he said, “I am Bill and my 
mother is in Cambridge, England, and my father, 
too, and I know they are both praying for me, 
and I want to surrender my life to Christ.” This 
Bill thought I had meant him, all the while! Wasn’t 
this a strange coincidence of name, place and cir- 
cumstance? I did not succeed in getting my Bill, 
my step-mother’s son, but in reaching out after 
him, I had won another Bill whose people lived in 
Cambridge and were praying for him. My Bill was 


310 Gipsy Smith 


there that night, but he dared not come to my cab 
to say “Good-night,”’ for his conscience was striv- 
ing with him. But the next morning, before I left 
Chicago, he came through the driving rain to see 
me and to say “Good-bye,” and to tell me the good 
news that after he had reached his room the 
night before he had had to surrender his stub- 
born will to God. This he did, alone in his room, 
and he had found his mother’s Christ, just as had 
the other Cambridge “Bill,” the same night at the 
public meeting. The prayers of two dear old 
couples, so many thousands of miles away from 
Chicago, had ascended from Cambridge and been 
answered in Chicago. Who says prayer is not 
answered? 

In the season of 1906-7 my work in America 
included engagements in many cities. Following 
Chicago in quick succession, I visited Galesburg, 
iil, “Peoria, UL; Clinton;) Tai, “Brooklyn, Ny Yu 
Atlanta, Ga., and Philadelphia, Pa. 

In Brooklyn, N. Y., the evangelistic campaign 
was arranged and carried through with great suc- 
cess and large results by Dr. S. Parkes Cadman 
and Dr. Newell Dwight Hillis. Meetings were 
held in both the historic Plymouth Church made 
famous by the labours of Henry Ward Beecher, 
and in Dr. Cadman’s church, one of the largest in 
Brooklyn. While in this city the weather was most 
unfavourable. There was rain or snow most of 
the time, but it did not seem to diminish the crowds 


More Missions to America 311 


or interest. The churches were always full to over- 
flowing. 

One night we were spending an hour or two 
with Dr. Cadman in his parsonage directly across 
the street from the church. The rain was coming 
down in torrents. I wondered if any would come 
out to the service. About an hour before the an- 
nounced time to begin the storm grew worse and 
I was in the act of saying to my wife and daughter 
and to Dr. Cadman and family, “I shall get a 
rest to-night, for surely no one will come out to 
preaching service in this downpour,” when my re- 
marks were cut short by a burst of song. We 
pulled up the blinds and looked out to see where 
the sound came from. We saw the street crowded 
with people, more than enough to fill the church, 
standing under umbrellas, waiting for the church 
doors to be opened, and singing “Throw Out the 
Life-line.” We were amazed and amused and felt 
rebuked because of our small measure of faith in 
the drawing power of the Gospel. 

From Brooklyn I went to Atlanta, Ga., that 
charming city of the Southland, where the well- 
known and beloved Dr. Len G. Broughton preached 
for many years and did such a glorious work for 
Christ. The occasion of my visit to Atlanta was 
to preach twice daily for ten days to Dr. Brough- 
ton’s Annual Bible Conference. What a privilege 
and refreshment I found it, to meet with so many 
splendid preachers and others from all over the 


312 Gipsy Smith 


State and from more distant points as well, who 
came to attend this Bible Conference! I recall how 
graciously they received my message and how 
eagerly they followed any poor word I had to utter 
and received it as a message from the Lord Him- 
self. I sometimes think, when the instrument is 
very poor, the Lord gets a better chance. If the 
instrument be self-assertive, and desirous of dis- 
playing its own magnificence and shining qualities, 
Jesus and the Holy Spirit may be crowded out! I 
sometimes think, also, that the Lord has been good 
enough to use me because I have been conscious of 
my own littleness and of my many limitations. 
Where soul-saving is concerned, it doesn’t pay to be 
too clever. The Holy Ghost must have a chance! 
Jesus once said “I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of 
heaven and earth, because Thou hast hid these 
things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed 
them unto babes.” 

It was while in Atlanta that Dr. Broughton, at 
the close of our own service, took me one evening 
to a large church where coloured people were wor- 
shipping. As soon as they saw me enter, they 
struck up singing “Let Us Cheer the Weary Trav- 
eller Along the Heavenly Road.” They sang with 
great and glorious passion. Then a dear old col- 
oured mammie got up, leaning on her stick, and 
said: 

“Sometimes I gets discouraged, and thinks my work 
is vain, , 
And then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.” 


More Missions to America 313 


After this the congregation burst forth in the 
chorus, “Let Us Cheer the Weary Traveller,” and 
the place was filled with such singing as only those 
can imagine who have had the privilege of hearing 
the coloured folk sing with abandon. ‘The scene 
is not one I can well describe, but it lives in my 
memory. I talked to these people for a while. 
They listended eagerly, and we had a happy fellow- 
ship together. I always enjoy the spontaneity and 
unconventionality of a coloured audience. 

The next morning when I came down to break- 
fast at the hotel, the negro porter, as black as 
ebony, with a broad smile revealing his beautiful 
white teeth, and his eyes aglow, said “Mo’nin’ sah, 
Mo’nin’ sah, Mo’nin’; and yo’ done gone down 
at ou’ chu’ch last night, preachin’ to my folks, sah!’ 
“Yes,” I said, “and is that your church?” “Sure, 
sah, I done been de treasurah down dere ob dat 
chu’ch twenty-five yeahs, and yo’ sho did preach 
to dem people last night and make an expression 
on my wife and any man what makes an expression 
on my wife sho makes an expression on me.” 
“Good,” I said, “I am glad if you and your wife 
liked my preaching.” .“Yez, sah, yo’ orter done 
been dere to ob hea’d ow preachah Sunday, ’cause 
it bein’ de last Sunday befo’ Good Friday [Palm 
Sunday he meant, of course], ou’ preachah done 
gone and buried de Lawd, but nex’ Sunday mo’nin’ 
he’s goin’ to rose Him!” 

Returning to New York City, I stopped for a 
mission in Philadelphia, which was held in the great 


314 Gipsy Smith 


church over which Dr. Russell H. Conwell has been 
pastor for so many years. This engagement com- 
pleted my work in America for this season, and I 
reached home in May, 1907. 

I carried with me the impression that the Ameri- 
can people were growing intellectually, socially, 
numerically and financially, but were not keeping 
pace with this growth in their spiritual and reli- 
gious life. I was sadly impressed with the change 
and also with another fact, that many of the preach- 
ers were being deeply influenced by the “higher” 
criticism. Any man who widens his stream must 
deepen the bed also, or he will not be able to carry 
much freight. There must be depth as well as 
breadth. In other words, if a man’s heart is teth- 
ered absolutely to Jesus Christ and the finished work 
of the Cross, I am not afraid of his head’s jumping 
off at a tangent. But if a man ceases to love, or 
loses the heart-grip with his Lord, then his head, 
though ever so brilliant, is no help to others when 
it comes to the spirit-life and abounding grace. 

Along with this realisation of the loss of much 
spiritual power in the American churches, I was 
also conscious of the other side of the situation. 
No one could visit the cities which I had visited 
on this trip, and come into live touch with the 
preachers and leaders, and work with them through 
such months of strenuous toil, without feeling the 
tremendous latent power of the churches and the 
preachers, and also being fully conscious of the 


More Missions to America 315 


stupendous possibilities of this glorious America, 
under proper spiritual leadership! 

Again, in 1908-9, I was in America, holding 
missions in eleven of the greatest cities. At Balti- 
more the crowd outside the building was so great 
that the ministers took five-minute “turns” at 
hearing me, and then went out and repeated as 
much as they could remember. At Washington 
the meetings were attended by some of the leading 
American statesmen with their wives and families, 
and Lord Bryce came to one service. President 
Roosevelt gave me an audience, although it was 
election week. He was a student of George Bor- 
row, and wanted to know all I could tell him about 
my gipsy people. After the performance I held 
a meeting in the leading theatre. The company had 
been asked to remain. The leading star actor asked 
me, ‘““Now how many are there in your company?” 
I answered, “Just Jesus and me; that’s all.’ He 
said, “If you have my mother’s Jesus you need no 
other.” At a Cleveland meeting, the theatre was 
crammed with men and women of the under-world. 
For fifteen minutes I did nothing but quote arrest- 
ing Scripture texts, and I never saw an audience 
so moved and rapt. There was another of the 
prodigals brought to his senses by what I said about 
mothers. He was a Denver lad. When I reached 
Denver the mother, to whom the lad had gone 
home, covered my hand with kisses, and said, “You 
gave me back my lost boy, whom I had mourned 


316 Gipsy Smith 


as dead for nine years.” At Pittsburgh eight hun- 
dred churches united for the mission. Sixty police- 
men assisted in the meetings. They raised their 
helmets during prayers, joined in the singing and 
I called them my “Choir in Uniform.” I gave 
them a little feast before I left, and the flashlight 
picture of the company is a treasured souvenir. 

Never was such a strain put on my nerves as 
at St. Louis, that great city in the Middle West. 
At the evening meeting on the first day when, for 
about fifteen minutes, I had been speaking to a 
densely packed audience, a dozen “toughs” pushed 
their way through the swinging doors at the far 
end. I scented trouble, and trouble it was. The 
men scattered and shouted “Frre! Fire!”  In- 
stantly thousands of panic-stricken people were on 
their feet. A frightful disaster was imminent. I 
turned at once to the choir of a thousand voices, 
and bade them follow me in singing, “Where He 
Leads Me I Will Follow.” Never did choir give 
out such a volume of sound. This had a calming 
influence. I got an opportunity of recalling to the 
terrified people the statement in the Press the day 
before that “The Colosseum cannot burn, for it 
is built of concrete and steel.” Order and quiet 
were restored, and with shattered nerves I strug- 
gled on, the audience shouting “Go on, sir, we are 
with you and for you.” The “toughs”’ had been 
set on by the brewers, for St. Louis was, at that 
time, a brewery centre. 


More Missions to America 217 


After a summer rest at home I returned for mis- 
sions in Chicago and Cincinnati. While in Chicago 
we had a midnight parade through the Red Light 
district. Even leading churchmen, in the Press, 
questioned the wisdom of invading this district, but 
the “lewd fellows of the baser sort’’ went further. 
The Police Commissioner hesitated to grant me a 
permit to parade the district. 

When we got into the midst of the fallen and 
the lost lights were lowered, if not turned out. 
Windows were thrown open and we could hear 
sobbing. From one window came the request, “Will 
Gipsy Smith sing my mother’s hymn, ‘Nearer my 
God to Thee’?” From another came the request, 
“Please sing ‘Where is my Wandering Boy To- 
night’? One girl jumped out of a window and 
cried, “For God’s sake, save me!” All along the 
line of our march things happened, heart-wrenching 
enough to make angels weep. When we reached 
the theatre it was filled with men and women lost 
to society and home and God. I asked them if they 
would sing, “Jesus, Lover of my Soul?” “No!” 
came the flat refusal. So I said, “All right, then I 
can sing it myself,’ and I did. If ever God helped 
me to sing He helped me then. After the first verse 
I appealed again, saying, “Who will help this time?” 
A rough young fellow called out, “I will, sir, because 
you're a sport.” Here and there they gradually 
joined in, and before we had finished they were all 
singing. Then I tried to preach the Gospel of Love 


318 Gipsy Smith 


and Hope—hope for all—mercy for all—in the 
words of the hymn 


“Plenteous grace with Thee is found 
Grace to cover all my sin.” 


Nearly every one of those three thousand men and 
women responded before the meeting was over, 
asking for prayer. They did not merely stand as 
an indication of their desire but they spoke out, 
and asked for prayer. Only Eternity will reveal 
the struggles and strivings and results of that 
night. 

Early the next morning (or more properly speak- 
ing the same morning, for our meeting continued 
beyond midnight), a young man came into my 
room at the hotel, holding half-a-brick in his hand. 
He said, “Boss, I was in the theatre last night and 
I was under a wager to throw that very brick at 
you and I’d ah done it if you’d ah turned yer finger 
or yer hand the wrong way, fer there’s nothin’ left 
for me to do of wrong which I ain’t done. [ve 
been held in the Red Light district since I was 
seven for immoral purposes and I was in hell and 
was just waitin’ fer you to say somethin’ to rouse 
me—just waitin’ fer a chance to throw that there 
brick at you, when yer first words, as you seemed 
to look straight at me were ‘My brother, God loves 
you.’”’ The young man said he had never in all 
his life been told that before, and it overpowered 
him until he said that his arm, with the brick in the 
hand, had fallen limp by his side. ‘You told me,” 


More Missions to America 319 


he continued, ‘‘that God loved me and I have come 
here this morning with this here brick and you’ve 
got to make it good.” Putting my arms around 
him I said, “My brother, J can’t ‘make it good,’ but 
He who loves you will. Let us kneel down and 
pray.” He turned to me and said, “Man, I can’t 
pray, I never did pray.” Then I asked him if he 
believed in God. “Yes,” he said, “and if He can 
make me a good man, I want Him to.” “Well,” I 
said, “just ask for that.” We both knelt and he 
began a prayer, the like of which I never did hear 
before and perhaps never will again. At least I 
hope I never shall, for I don’t want to. There 
wasn’t a pure expression that fell from his lips, but 
the poor fellow was using the only language he 
knew. He had never been taught any better, and 
God in His love and mercy just sorted out the man’s 
sincere desire and his soul from all the filth and 
impurity of his language and surroundings. God 
in His love lifted this soul out of the muck and the 
mire and the clay and saved him. Three or four 
years afterwards I received a little printed Christ- 
mas card bearing the names of a number of men 
and women who were graduating that year, or 
who had graduated, which is better, from the 
Moody Bible Institute of Chicago, Ill. These grad- 
uates were prepared to spend their lives in Christ’s 
service, and my young man who had come to my 
room years before with the brick in his hand, whom 
I had discovered that night by the midnight parade 
in the Red Light district, was one of that noble list. 


CHAPTER XXX 
MY MISSION TO PARIS 


In some ways I look upon my work in Paris in 
March, 1918, as one of the most remarkable mis- 
sions of my life. The request came from not more 
than about fifty earnest Christians in that city to 
the National Free Church Council for a mission 
tc be conducted by myself. I hesitated, for vari- 
ous reasons. I did not know the language or the 
people. I was promised a good interpreter, but I 
felt that with my temperament I could not fit into 
the peculiar situation. When I am pleading for 
immediate decision, and feel a soul is on the point 
of surrender, I do not care for anyone to come be- 
tween that soul and myself, but with an interpreter 
that was inevitable. At last I felt I must yield. As 
we had never been in Paris before I took my wife 
with me. On arrival I found the committee had 
taken for the mission a “swagger” concert hall, used 
for classical concerts and entertainments for the cul- 
tured. There was violent prejudice against religion 
just then in France. The committee thought it wise 
not to call the meetings a “mission” at all, but a 
“conference,” to be conducted by “Gipsy Smith of 
England.” A circular letter had been issued to the 
wealthy, cultured English-speaking French people. 


320 


My Mission to Paris 321 


These filled the hall at the opening meeting, about 
fifteen hundred being present. 

When I walked on to the platform scores of opera 
glasses were raised. But when I knelt silently at the 
little table to commit myself and these people to God 
and to ask for His guidance and Spirit to take pos- 
session of us, those beautiful, artistic people in- 
stantly became silent, too, in a reverence which could 
be felt. Then I tried to talk to them, and God only 
knows the struggle and the fear within my heart and 
mind, lest they should not understand, even though 
they were listening. When I had finished preaching 
I sang a simple Gospel song and I thought I saw the 
first glimmer of interest when here and there tears 
were brushed away with dainty handkerchiefs. I 
then told them I was a man who believed in prayer 
and in God and His love for poor sinful men. I 
told them that sometimes I knew I made stupid 
blunders and grieved God and that I needed the 
sympathy and prayers of the people about me who 
were greater saints than I could ever hope to be. 
I said that in such moments of discouragement I 
would turn to those in whose goodness I believed, 
and ask them to pray for me. I added that it might 
be that some of those before me were feeling at this 
moment that they, too, had made mistakes, that 
their hearts were sinful and their lives had got into 
a tangle and that they would like some one to pray 
for them. Then I simply asked if I might be that 
one. I said “I am going to pray now, and if you 
have understood me, and would like me to take you 


B22 Gipsy Smith 


to God, simply and humbly to ask Him to blot out 
your transgressions, and bring you back in penitence 
to His feet, just stand up with me.” To my utmost 
surprise fully two-thirds of that audience of fifteen 
hundred were instantly on their feet and remained 
there, many weeping, both men and women. 

I could not invite them to an inquiry-room, for 
there was none, but a still greater reason was, that 
had I done so, they would immediately have been 
reminded of the Confessional, and that would not 
have done. We remained standing and all I could 
do for the moment was to commit these people to 
God and the power of His grace and the teaching of 
the Holy Spirit. Then I watched them quietly and 
reverently leave. 

After a few nights I introduced, for the first time, 
my decision card bearing the following inscription: 

“Believing Jesus Christ to be the only Saviour for 
sinners I do here and now accept Him as my Lord 
and Saviour, and promise by His Grace to love and 
follow Him.” 

That night one hundred and fifty signed cards, 
and these names proved to be largely of the people 
whom we had first circularised, among them a prin- 
cess, a baroness, a duchess, and a count. When I 
returned to Paris, for they called me back one year 
later, the count was the Chairman of my Committee, 
and the baroness and the duchess were members of 
it. In this first mission to Paris, however, I had 
been compelled, before many days had passed, to 
speak through an interpreter because the crowds of 


My Mission to Paris 228 


French people, who could understand no English, 
surged in upon us. I never suffered such agony on 
any platform or in any pulpit in my life. Each time 
when I got through, I felt like a bird which had not 
only had its wings clipped, but which had had every 
feather plucked. I shall never forget the last meet- 
ing at which I had an interpreter. I had been 
struggling for fifteen or twenty minutes to make 
myself understood through a brother whom I knew 
was doing his best, but his best was poor. The 
people knew and felt the struggle I was having. 
Finally I just dispensed with his services and look- 
ing at the crowd of nearly two thousand, I made 
venture with the best French I could command, and 
asked them in their own tongue, “Do you love 
Jesus?” It was the first real soul-to-soul touch. Con- 
tact was established and to the day of my death, and 
even in Eternity, I think I shall always remember 
that crowd of men and women and their response 
as, sobbing, they jumped to their feet and answered 
vehemently, “Oui, oui!’ I felt at that moment that 
IT would have been willing to have given both my 
arms to have been able to preach my Lord Jesus 
Christ in their own tongue. I might have become 
an apostle to the French. As it was my speech was 
bound, but in this Paris mission the Word of the 
Lord had liberty and triumphed over all difficulties 
and I returned to England marvelling at how great 
things the Lord had done among those people. 

I pause here to tell one more story in connection 
with this first mission to Paris. One of the belles 


324 Gipsy Smith 


of Paris, who had been converted in the meetings, 
came to me. She was decked with diamonds and 
pearls and was fashionably gowned. But she shook 
like a tired bird in a storm. She said “I could have 
my box at the opera. I could have my fine automo- 
bile, my fashionable friends and all the pleasures 
the world can offer. But I am weary of them all. 
They are so unsatisfying. All, all is unsatisfying. 
I want Jesus.” I looked at her in pity, and quietly 
said “Madame, let us kneel and pray.” When the 
soul gets to the point of just being tired of every- 
thing else in the world, and knows it is just hungry 
for Jesus, it is not long in finding Him, and this 
French woman found Him. 

Just before I returned to Paris, twelve months 
later, I received a letter from this lady inviting me 
tc come to her home the first day of my visit, to 
meet twenty-five of the Protestant pastors of Paris 
and France. Remembering that on my former visit 
many of these pastors who were rationalists or 
Unitarians, refused to lend me their support or co- 
operation or the use of their churches, I replied, 
“They would not meet me before, and they may not 
meet me this time.” But I received the second letter 
saying, “I am going to invite them to my home for 
lunch and they will not refuse my invitation to meet 
you, for my social standing will demand a reply. 
They won't refuse for fear they will get no more 
invitations and they know my home is strategic. 
I will make my social standing tell for Christ.’ So 
I agreed. 


My Mission to Paris 325 


Sure enough twenty-five pastors and their wives 
were there, and when luncheon was over, a little 
Frenchman, who was an earnest Christian and un- 
derstood English, put his back to the wall in the 
drawing room and plied me with questions, and then 
interpreted my answers. Our discussion lasted two 
hours, on the subject of the place which the Cross 
occupied in my ministry. You may be certain that 
I tried to put it where it ought to be. When I 
looked at my watch and said I was soon due at my 
next meeting the guests insisted they must have 
more another time, so the hostess set the hour. This 
time, instead of twenty-five persons, there were 
seventy. We had a genuine revival of religion 
amongst them. All this was brought about by the 
consecration, devotion and tact of this influential 
woman who was willing to use her social position 
for Christ. Could I have remained, all these pastors 
of French Protestant churches would have opened 
their pulpits to me, I believe. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


WITH THE “BOYS” DURING THE WORLD 
WAR 


THE year 1913 saw me again in America. I was 
on the programme of a Bible Conference at Carters- 
ville, Ga., the home of that mighty evangelist, Sam 
Jones. His widow and family entertained me. I 
went on to the Winona Lake Assembly, where three 
thousand preachers were present. At meetings be- 
fore the Bible Conference I’spoke along with Dr. 
Campbell Morgan. After my sermon on “The Lost 
Christ,” I found pushed under my door a note from 
a minister who said he had heard it. He had the 
largest church and congregation in the city, but 
said, “I have lost my Christ. I promise you and 
my church and my God that I will never preach 
again till I have found Him.” I came home for a 
Christmas rest, before starting on a six months’ tour 
with Rev. S. F. Collier, the then President of the 
Wesleyan Conference. We spoke twice each day, 
visiting every part of England, to representatives of 
every department of church life. Then broke on the 
world the Great War, with its torrents of blood and 
tears, and its challenge to the churches and to a 
world that had left Christ out of its calculations. 
For a time I went on with my missions in England, 

326 





MY MOTHER’S GRAVE IN NORTON CHURCHYARD 


mre 


Jn 
al 





During the World War 327 


but I felt I must do my bit for the country, to help 
the “boys,” and most of all to serve my Master. 
Here I can only briefly sketch its features. In 
1916-17, and again in 1917 and part of 1918, I was 
in the mud and blood with the “boys” in France. 
In 1918 the British Government laid hands on me, 
and sent me to America to speak on behalf of the 
Allies. When I returned to France in January, 
1919, peace had come, but I toured the devastated 
districts of France and Flanders, speaking to the 
“boys” on my way to Cologne. I went back to 
Paris and had happy meetings with the American 
“boys,” to many of whom I was well known. The 
last months of 1919 and the first quarter of 1920 
I was again missioning in America. I rested at 
home for the summer, and was in America again 
for a wonderful mission that began in October. 
When the war broke out I wanted to enlist, but 
I was born too soon, and, besides, the doctor diag- 
nosed a disqualifying ailment. My church turned 
down my plea to send me to do anything for the 
“boys,” but later the Y.M.C.A. gave me my chance. 
Never did I have such a chance. My work was cer- 
tainly not monotonous. I had, for one thing, to dis- 
tribute chocolate, malted milk, bachelor’s buttons, 
soap, candles, shoe polish and laces, matches, writ- 
ing paper and envelopes—in fact anything that came 
along. I threatened if they did not write home I 
would put them in the guardhouse—they knew I 
had no authority. I always knew if the letter was 
for mother or sister, for it was “One sheet, please’’ ; 


328 Gipsy Smith 


if for “the other one” it was “Two sheets, sir, 
please.’ Serving tea and coffee to lads trembling 
with fever, shell-shocked, drenched to the skin, I 
felt I was doing Christ’s work as much as ever I had 
served Him on the platform. Of course, I never 
lost an opportunity of speaking a word for my 
Master. I could tell hundreds of thrilling stories of 
my dealings with the “boys.” I believe my personal 
ministry, with its ‘conversational preaching,” did 
much to revive concern for their souls. There was 
no blatant infidelity. I heard much said about the 
Church in general, and the way in which churches 
were conducted, but for Christ they had nothing but 
silent homage. 


CHAPTER XXXII 
FROM THE ARMISTICE TO TO-DAY 


In the course of my wartime trip to America I 
travelled 50,000 miles, and spoke three hundred and 
fifty times in fifty-four cities in every part of the 
United States. Fresh from the scenes of the war 
my stories of the sacrificial heroism of the “boys” 
served to arouse the country to a better appreciation 
of the greatness and urgency of the needs. Under 
the auspices of the Y.M.C.A., and with the endorse- 
ment of the American Government, I travelled usu- 
ally by night and worked in the day. My American 
mission in 1920 covered a very wide field, and there 
was certainly no falling off in the size of the meet- 
ings and in the results. A new chapter of the Acts 
of the Apostles might be made of the tour and the 
demonstrations of “the ancient power.” At Louis- 
ville, Kentucky, for instance, 8,000 people gathered 
every day for a month in a specially erected Taber- 
nacle. The “Flag of Christ”—a white pennant on 
a blue cross—was raised above the Stars and Stripes 
by a troop of American Boy Scouts. A pulpit was 
presented to me at the first meeting, but I felt more 
at home on the platform. A wealthy business man 
‘phoned me up the first Sunday night. He insisted 
on seeing me, though I was just going to bed, be- 

329 


330 Gipsy Smith 


cause he was leaving the city the next morning, and 
“he wanted to know he was right before another 
day dawned.” He came to my room. We knelt 
and prayed, and when he rose he assured me, with 
tears, that he was saved. 

At Nashville an “education night” was arranged 
for college students. Thousands came from the 
colleges of the South. They seized me and decked 
me with their college colours, and even made me put 
on a football sweater, to everybody’s huge delight. 
When I got to business I said, ““Now I bring you my 
colours, the colours of my Lord Jesus Christ—the 
crimson cross of redemption, the banner of faith, 
the shield of protection, the assurance of salvation, 
the gold which signifies the glory when the race is 
run and the victory’s won. What will you do with 
my precious colours? What shall I tell my Master 
this night?” Up jumped a handsome lad of twenty, 
a well-known star on the playing fields. He said 
quietly “T’ll take your colours, sir!’ That state- 
ment was as divine electricity. Two thousand 
followed suit, and signed the decisioncards. “Moth- 
ers’ Day” was another unforgetable day in Nash- 
ville. Three hundred motor cars were lent to bring 
the aged, the crippled and infirm, and the “‘shut-ins” 
to the service. A loving-cup fashioned of jonquils, 
and standing four feet high, was presented to me 
by Parent-Teacher Associations and the children of 
the city. 

During my American missions, especially since 
the Armistice, I spoke to many meetings of coloured 


From the Armistice to° To-day 331 


people. In the Southern States it was the rule to 
hold a meeting for coloured people only. Before 
one of these meetings a white friend asked me, 
“What colour are we going to be, when we get to 
heaven?” There rushed into my mind the text “It 
doth not yet appear what we shall be, but we know 
that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, 
for we shall see Him as He is.” With those words, 
I began my address to 6,000 coloured people, and I 
shall never forget the exultation of that service. 
Two thousand students from Fiske University sang, 
with the choir, their own negro songs. There will 
be, thank God, no colour line in heaven. 

Not till 1922-23, after the war, had I spent a 
winter preaching in Great Britain. It was an un- 
speakable pleasure to work with old friends over 
the old ground. Sheffield, Bradford, Bolton, New- 
castle-on-Tyne, London, Plymouth, Glasgow, Han- 
ley, carried me to the spring. The crowds and the 
results surpassed all I had yet seen in Great Britain. 
At Sheffield there were 40,000 unemployed. I 
thought it would be kindly and Christian to have a 
meeting for them and give them a word of sym- 
pathy and cheer. A very active set of Communists 
chose to misconstrue our motives and came to the 
Victoria Hall to do their best to break up the meet- 
ing. For an hour they howled at me, to the disgust 
of the great majority, but I stood my ground, smil- 
ing at them, and seized whatever opportunities there 
were to speak a word for my Master. It was a pain- 
ful experience, but not without its consolations. 


AR Gipsy Smith 


When I left the platform a beautiful girl came to 
me and said, “Gipsy, I have been greatly moved by 
what I have seen. I felt I must give my heart to 
Jesus.” Some of the ringleaders of the disturbance 
were ashamed of themselves. They came to later 
meetings and were converted. 

The London campaign was brief, with Kingsway 
Hall as the centre. It was a crowded ten days, both 
as regards the number of meetings and the audi- 
ences. Rev. J. E. Rattenbury conducted overflow 
meetings on the two Sunday evenings. More than 
3,000 men, forming fours, marched one day to the 
Cenotaph. The silent throng seemed to extend the 
whole length of the Strand. In Whitehall, in 
the dusk and fog of a winter evening, I deposited 
the wreath, and we sang “Abide With Me,” as the 
crowd each minute swelled. 

Here, for the present, I close, but the end is not 
yet. As I look back over my forty years of evan- 
gelistic service my amazement grows at the thought 
of what Christ can do with the poorest instrument. 
I cannot explain it. I can only say with Paul, 
“When I am weak, then am I strong.” I have been 
too conscious of my own weakness for any room to 
be left for pride. In that consciousness I have 
thrown myself wholly on my Master, and “His 
grace has been sufficient for me,” and He has shown 
His love and power by using me, even me. Of one 
thing I have been increasingly convinced, and let 
this be, for the present, my last word—the Lord has 
no use for half-hearted preachers of a half-hearted 


From the Armistice to To-day eeue 


Gospel. He demands full surrender, both of the 
preacher and the people. When there is that sur- 
render the power is given, and the people know that 
Jesus is the Lover of their souls, and that the prom- 
ises are yea and Amen in Christ Jesus. | 








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